TODAY'S SPECIAL - HEAVY METAL
by KKBELVIS
Summary: Season one. Prompt story for Hotshow. Sam has an accident that has nothing to do with the supernatural. Hurt Sam. Caretaker Dean/Bobby. Story is complete and will post in chapters.
1. Chapter 1

TODAY'S SPECIAL

HEAVY METAL

By: Karen B.

Summary: Season one. Prompt story for Hotshow. Sam has an accident that has nothing to do with the supernatural. Hurt Sam. Caretaker Dean/Bobby.

Disclaimer: Not the owner.

AN: Medical terms and diagnosis and in general EMT's/ doctor/Nurse/ and other hospital-stuff are sketchy… at best.

For Hotshow:

**Thank you ever so much for allowing me to build sandcastles in your backyard. **

**Her story prompt is posted at the end...as well as a prompt of my own.**

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

We'd been driving the long stretch of lonely highway all damn night. It was early morning now, sunny enough for sunglasses, but cool enough that we had the windows rolled up and the heater on low. Both Sam and I were dirty and itchy, bruised and scrapped, and basically beat to shit.

Even Baby was a muddy, caked on mess.

We needed hot pressurized showers, strong black coffee, homemade apple pie, a garden hose and bucket of soapy water for Baby, and whatever Bugs Bunny food Sam was eating these days…not necessarily in that order.

I glanced from one side of the road to the other in search of one of the above.

Nothing.

Not so much as a port-a- potty.

Corn to the left of us, corn to the right, and the Impala stuck in the middle.

I looked over at my grubby, wordlessly tired brother.

We both were, but Sam, he had gotten the worst of it. Having wrestled the Troll into a basin of mud. Wasn't like getting to see a couple of hot chicks grappling for a hold of one another, but it did the trick, and I not only cut off its head, I cut out its heart…just because.

With no motel in sight, we turned to our mobile closet – our duffle bags in Baby's ass end. We'd both wiped off as much mud as we could, using bottled water and hand towels, and then changed into jeans and tee shirts stuffing our wet muddy clothes into the laundry bag to be washed later. That was a little over eight hours ago and still we both looked like crap. Our clothes were wrinkled, and Sam's waterfall of hair was a sticky-coated mess. Not to mention both of us had mud crammed into places I didn't even know we had.

Sam had hardly spoken since the hunt.

Wasn't his fault he'd gotten the Intel wrong and we didn't get to the girl on time, or have the proper weapons to kill that bitch.

We can't save everyone. Sam knows that, and I'd told him a million times. What'd I have to do? Make him write it a million times too? Knowing Sam he'd do the writing in blood. His own. I knew his agenda. We had to find dad. Had to find Jessica's killer. I got it. I did. And we would. But in the mean time I had to keep him focused on something else. It was the only thing that helped keep his hurt away, and held him together. It was working to. Until this last hunt went sideways.

The silence in the car was deafening. I kept fussing with the radio for at least some sound, but all I kept getting for the last twenty miles was fuzz and static, and it was sad to say, but even I was sick of listening to my rock tapes.

The only other option was to get my baby brother out of his funk and talking again…anyway I had to.

"You haven't said two words in the last three and a half hours," I tested, peeling my eyes from the road and glancing over at Sam. "What're you thinking?"

"Not thinking anything, Dean," Sam uttered, shifting uncomfortably.

"You need to talk to me."

Sam let out a sigh, locking eyes with mine. "Nothing to talk about, Dean," he protested. "We can't save everybody, you said so yourself…that's all…the end." His temper flared.

"Uh-huh," I muttered, half-watching the road, half-watching Sam.

Sam bit into his lower lip and looked away from me, pressing his face to the passenger window to escape my scrutiny.

I'd let him fester long enough, so I kept at him. "You did the best you could back there, Sam. You know that."

Sam sat quiet and stiff as a board.

So I pushed him harder. "Come on, buddy." I nudged him caringly with my elbow. "You saved her sister and we killed the dirty, nasty troll."

"I just want to forget about it, Dean," Sam roared, shooting me a wild-eyed look.

"Dude! Don't yell at me," I barked, shooting him an equally – if not more awesome – wild-eyed look.

"Sorry." Sam cringed and squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"Okay, so talking about it is a bad idea," I softened.

"Very bad," he admitted, staring back out the passenger window and scratching at his itchy, muddy scalp.

Dried mud crumbled to his lap and he brushed the flakes off to the floorboards.

"Looks like somebody ran out of their Head and Shoulders."

"Yeah, and you ran out of your," Sam shrugged, "What ever B.O. crap you're using these days."

"Dude." I lifted my right shoulder and sniffed under my pit. "Smells one hundred percent awesome."

"Whatever." Sam shrugged and went back to shedding mud this time from his arms.

I sighed and reached up to wipe some gritty mud of my own from behind my ears, and went back to concentrating on the two-lane highway.

Finally the cornfield was behind us as we hit the city limits, but it was more like hitting a dot on the map. The road going from blacktop to dusty-red. I slowed from sixty to twenty-five taking in the sights. It looked to be a small, old town. The kind of old town that had a rocking chair out in front of every store. The one and only bar probably brewed its own beer, and the biggest event of the year was obviously the Tomato Festival that was going on this weekend if the large banner draped over the street was any indication. They even had an old-time barber shop with one of those red-and-blue twirling poles. Looked like a nice, safe, boring place to spend the night, if not a couple days. That was if they had a place to spend the night.

The bright sun bounced off the hood, and I adjusted my dark sunglasses, but that didn't help so I pulled the sun visor down.

Something fell out into my lap.

It was one of those musical birthday cards with balloons and confetti on the front of it. Sam had gotten it for me. Not because it was my birthday, but because the damn thing played the _Happy Birthday Song_ to the tune of Deep Purple's _Smoke on the Water. _

Sam still fidgeted in his seat, titling his head left, then right, and rubbing the back of his neck. Kid was wound up tight.

"You okay over there, Sammy?"

"Dean, I told you a million times…it's Sam." He scratched an obvious itch on his chest, and instantly his white tee shirt stained brown. "God, I need a shower," he complained, shifting with difficulty and going back to rubbing his neck.

I cleared my throat, and asked him again, "You okay over there, stick in the mud?"

Sam flicked me off, and leaned back in his seat.

Okay, so if my sappy 'care enough to send the very best' freak of a brother didn't want to talk to me to get his mind off what happened back there, maybe screwing with him would.

Driving one handed, I used the other to open the birthday card and it started playing. Good thing those card batteries lasted forever. I closed it, and then opened it. Closed it, and then opened it.

Closed.

Open.

Closed.

Open…closed. All the while humming along with the birthday tune.

"Dean," Sam said flatly. "Stop it."

I ignored him.

Open. Close. Open. Close. Open. Close.

"Dean, please stop it," Sam tried the polite approach, keeping that same flat, calm tone.

I hummed louder, opening and closing the singing card faster.

Sam flashed me his bitchface.

I nodded at him and gave a huge smile, continuing to purposely annoy and frustrate him.

"Real mature, Dean," Sam squawked, making a grab for the card.

I whipped the card away, being sure to keep it open and playing. "It's mine," I said, poking my tongue out at him.

Sam's brow crinkled and he sucked in his bottom lip the way he used to when he was two and I made him go sippy-cup-cold turkey.

I shut the card and laughed. "Now who's not being mature?" I shoved the card in my jacket's pocket that was sitting between us on the seat, and instead started lip-farting to the tune of happy birthday, pretending I didn't notice how Sam was gapping at me.

After another minute, or so, I turned to him feigning stupid. "What?" I frowned.

Sam spread both hands out wide. "You're kidding me, right?"

"About what?" I shook my head pretending not to understand what the hell my 'annoyed' baby brother was talking about.

"Dean, that's disgusting." He let his hands fall to his lap with a plop.

"What's so disgusting about it?" I laughed on the inside, knowing I had his gonads… but good.

"If I have to point it out to you."

"Hey." I pointed up ahead. "Driver's the only one who gets to do any pointing out around here, my dear brother, and that…" I slowed down as we approached a large sign and read it out loud, "Sonny's Motel and Barbeque Barn….clean rooms, good food, cheap rate." I turned to Sam. "Well, that's all I needed to see." I took a sharp left, piloting baby carefully down a bumpy road past a few more shabby storefronts until we reached our destination.

"If you say so," Sam muttered peering out the window at the motel. "Real modern, Dean," he said, nodding to the row of busted up payphones next to the restaurant.

"Never mind that…Sonny's Barbeque. Mmmmm." I licked my lips, reading the sign duct tapped to the window. "Good, cheap, and fast."

"I don't know," Sam groaned. "Place looks outdated, more like graveyard barbeque, Dean."

"Ha! Check that guy's ride out." I gestured toward a rail-thin old man peddling a red tricycle, a basket full of eggs fastened to the handle bars and a long-pole attached to the back fender with an orange and red safety flag flapping in the breeze. "Now that's an awesome ride," I chuckled, waving at the happy, old fellow who was happily waving at me. "Don't you think so, Sammy?"

"I don't know, Dean."

"Hey, I bet they serve all day breakfast. Even have the Cadbury-guy delivering fresh eggs. You like that don't you?"

"I don't know," Sam said dully.

"It's a restaurant, Sam."

"It's a barn, Dean."

"Fresh eggs, dude!" I huffed in exasperation. "Aren't you starving?"

"I don't know," Sam growled.

I sighed. Sam's 'I don't knows' always translated into 'leave me alone, Dean, I'm not in the mood to talk.

"Look, Sasquatch-Square-Pants," I growled back. "Restaurant's only a few steps away from the motel. We eat, and then get a room. I'll even let you shower first."

"Oh, goodie."

"Shut it, Sammy. Just go in and order us our usual grub and grab a newspaper on your way in." I took my sunglasses off and dipped my head. Catching Sam's eyes, I flashed him my I-am-so-not- kidding look. "Best thing for you right now is to get back in the saddle, find us another job."

Sam snorted, obviously not convinced. "What about you?" he asked.

I jerked a thumb over my shoulder. "Saw a do-it-yourself carwash back there. Baby needs a shower." I glanced out over the crusty, bug-smashed hood and winced. Normally I didn't let as much as a fingerprint get on her.

Sam nodded his understanding and reluctantly got out of the car.

"See you in fifteen, twenty, "I said just as he shut the door.

I waited; watching baby bro move slowly and miserable across the lot, a sudden mixture of worry and fear making my stomach flip and flop. _What the hell?_ I guardedly looked around, preparing to ward-off anything that so much as broke wind Sam's way. But there was nothing more than a few parked cars, a coke machine, a mail box, the row of beat up pay phones that no one had probably used in years, and a mother in a blue-spotted dress struggling to get a screaming, chubby baby out of his car seat.

I smiled when an image of me coddling a chubby, red-cheeked, big-eyed baby-Sammy while he drool-soaked my shirt entered into my mind.

I kept watch a few more seconds while Sam stopped and dug into his pocket and dropped a few coins into the newspaper vending machine near the entrance. I continued to scan the area as he retrieved his paper, and then sluggishly went inside without a glance my way.

I slipped my glasses back on. "He'll feel better after he eats something," I lamely told Baby, giving her steering wheel a pat and pulling away, my stomach, for some friggin' reason still flip-flopping.

TBC…


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As I crossed the lot, I noticed a young mother in a polka dot dress struggling with her crying infant. It made my stomach flip. Jessica and I had talked about kids. She wanted ten. I would have settled for one.

I stood in front of the newspaper vending machine and squeezed my eyes shut, the crying infant morphing into the screams of the young girl I couldn't save. I could still see splashes of red, could still smell the musky stench mixed in with the sweet scent of her cologne, could still hear her short cutoff scream as the troll's killer jaws clamped down on her throat, sloppily tearing away at flesh.

The hunt played in my head like snapshots. I concentrated hard, examining each photo. Picking it apart and hoping to make sense of it all. Nope…wasn't happening. There was no big mystery. No huge secret.

There was a monster.

I didn't properly identify it in my research.

We didn't have the proper weapons to kill it.

And now another young girl –about Jessica's age – was dead – 'cause of me.

The cruelness of it made me dizzy, and I stuttered sideways. Snapping my eyes open, I resisted the need to grab onto the vending machine for balance knowing Dean was still watching, feeling his eyes tracking my every breath.

Quick as I could, I dug out some change, grabbed a paper, and stepped into the diner.

I looked back over my shoulder through the glass door to watch as Dean finally pulled out of the parking lot, leaving behind a trail of dust.

I knew I was being a bitch. Driving Dean crazy and causing him more worry.

I felt bad about that. I did. But I couldn't seem to help it. All I could concentrate on was my screw up…and the fact Jessica was dead. That pushed and shoved and pried and picked apart at my insides. With each passing day the feeling only intensified. My only goal at this point…we had to find dad. It was the only thing driving me forward. I had to have answers first. Dad would have those answers.

I swallowed down hard, but that dry feeling in my mouth never would go away. Dean was right about one thing. I needed to stay in the saddle.

I waited until the Impala's dust settled. Then did as the sign said and proceeded to seat myself, making my way across the restaurant newspaper determinedly clutched in my hand. The sweet smell of honey and orange and robust coffee surprisingly made my stomach rumble with hunger for the first time in days.

It was a busy place, Sonny's. The exuberant sounds of dishes rattling and forks clinking and people enjoying one another's company filled the huge barn-like space. I sat down in an overstuffed booth in front of an overly large window that let the sunlight stream straight through. Everything about the place was big. Made up of solid wood. Wood walls, wood floors, a peaked nine-foot high beamed ceiling. Antique railroad lanterns hung from hooks, and the walls were decorated with an array of cowboy paraphernalia. There were paintings of bucking broncos, and wild stallions, ten gallon black cowboy hats, bullwhips, fake rifles, and a bleached bull skull with polished horns. I quickly looked away stifling the need to burn the thing.

It was like walking through time into the western frontier.

"Be right with you, darlin."

I spared a glance up at the well-built waitress with the Texan accent. She was wearing a short white skirt, pink plaid shirt, and pink bandana tie to match. She breezed past with a basket of fresh biscuits in one hand, and a pot of aromatic black-bold coffee in the other, her brown-leather cowgirl boots scuffing across the wooden floor almost in a dance.

"Dean's going to love this place." I blew out a breath, dragging a hand through my mud-crusted hair. I opened up the paper and spread it out, settling back against the leather seat.

Less than a minute later, a cup of steaming coffee, a basket of buttery biscuits, and a menu were placed in front of me.

"You look like a biscuits and coffee sort of fellow." She winked. "Be back in a jiff for your order," she said and then scuff-danced off again.

I didn't open the menu…knew what I wanted….and didn't take a sip of my coffee, though my dry mouth begged for it. Instead I zeroed in on the paper, right off seeing a car ad for a brand new Impala. I had to laugh at that. Dean would never trade in the Impala. Sure she was old… I physically bulked. I mean she was a true classic, I corrected knowing Dean would have hauled off and decked me one if I'd said that out loud in front of him.

I flipped to the next page of the paper and started reading an article about global warming and still thinking about the Impala. If I was being honest, that car was the non-craziest part of our lives. Sure she required a lot of maintenance, but Dean kept her going. Breaking out the tools if he even heard a tiny ping or she skipped a beat. It wasn't a money issue. It was a love issue.

And man, he loved that car. I loved her too. She really was home. But Dean…he was born to drive her. He had a knack for making her purr in a way dad, nor I, ever could.

_Dad. Dad. Dad. _

I flipped through a few more pages not finding anything of interest when a sudden bout of loud crying pulled my eyes up. Mine along with everyone else's in the restaurant that was.

The mom in the polka dot dress had just now made it into the diner. She struggled over to the table adjacent from me, the fussy baby bicycle pedaling and whaling louder as its mother tried to put it in its highchair.

She snuck a glance over at me, flashing apologetic pale-blue eyes as she shyly sat down.

I flashed a weak smile in response.

She quickly ducked behind the menu the glitzy waitress had just handed her, while at the same time trying to sooth the babies screams with soft cooing sounds.

I went back to my paper. The words blurring, or maybe it was the tears in my eyes that I was trying to desperately hold back. I felt dizzy and sick and out of it. Squinting hard, I tried to shake the feelings. Really focus; praying maybe the fuzzy newsprint might have some triumphant answers for me. The whys and why not's of this job, of Jessica's death, of why I couldn't save her– save anyone.

Suddenly the restaurant was a buzz, everyone jumping from their seats, panicked and running. Shocked looks and squeals of fear filled the air. I remained calm, an island in a sea of chaos and mayhem. The mother across from me was desperately trying to tug the still fussy baby from its highchair.

Time slowed to a practical standstill and I saw the big picture as if I was the staring actor in a slow-motion film.

Everything happened in increments.

The floor under my feet rumbled, working its way up my legs and curving around my belly and clenching tight. I braced my hands to the rattling table, and pushed to stand.

A hot breeze seemed to puff through the closed window, stirring the pages of the newspaper.

I turned my head to see the glass cracking – hair line fractures spreading out like a million roads reaching for some far off land.

Dishes and cups and flower vases shimmied and shook and slid off tables. One by one they shattered into pieces on the wooden floor.

A piercing whine sliced through my ears.

I craned my head to look out the window.

A huge shadowy form appeared outside - a tanker truck that had obviously lost control was inching closer and closer, closing the gap between it and the glass.

The yawning silver grill of a mouth seemed to open wide readying to swallow the restaurant whole.

Behind me, I could still hear the scatter of feet and the rattling of dishes and the screaming wail of the baby.

I turned back to see the mother still trying to yank the chubby child from the high chair, her polka-dotted dress ruffling in the hot breeze.

A mournful groan left my lips as I realized what was happening.

"Oh, God," I screamed. "Look out!"

In a synchronistic instant, I slipped out of the booth just as a thunderous thud hit the wall and steaming breath poured forth fogging up the air.

Lunging for the baby, I grabbed hold of its arms yanking it from the highchair and shoving it into the arms of its mother.

Her pale blue eyes were wide as saucers in shock and denial, her mouth open in a silent scream as she stared past me.

"Move!" I rammed her hard. My left shoulder to her right shoulder, hearing bones crack – hers, mine, maybe both as she launched out of sight, her startled cry of pain sickening me.

There came a mighty crunch, and I barely had time to suck in a deep gulp of air before fifty-three feet, and forty tons of heavy metal slammed me down to the floor.

Strangely, I was mindfully aware of being bodily dragged and twisted and pushed.

It felt like forever as I was plowed through tables and chairs, my clothes tearing, skin rubbed raw and picking up wood splinters. I skidded and bumped across the floor. I should have blacked out by now, but was still conscious when I was finally hedged into a corner and held tightly in check.

I sat there stunned not even trying to move. For how long I wasn't certain.

With eyes only open a fraction I looked around, struggling to breathe, struggling to gain my bearings. Dim lights flickered and a thick cloud of gray-dust whirled and hung suspended in the air, seeming to make it even harder to catch a breath or see anything. The entire interior of the restaurant had changed. From downhome, to downright unrecognizable.

My eyes opened and closed as I faded in and out with the flickering lights. Fighting not to go completely under, I slammed my head back, groaning when it hit a wall behind me a little too hard.

That at least got my attention.

I looked up. The high ceiling was a jungle of tangled frayed electrical wiring and broken, rotting beams. That would explain why a place - as big and solid looking as it seemed - had crumbled like a house of sticks. It'd probably been slowly rotting away for years due to water damage. Someone had obviously covered that up good. It was obviously outdated. Nobody used payphones anymore. I told Dean it was a graveyard barbeque. He never listens to me.

My brain unclouded a little more and I suddenly got the distinct eerie feeling someone was staring at me.

"Hello," I called weakly gulping in a mouthful of wet, mildewy air.

I looked down, then over to my right.

I saw a set of pale-blue dead eyes staring blankly back at me.

I reflexively jerked, my head once again banging against the wall behind me.

"No," I gagged not bothering to call out, knowing I wouldn't get a response. "Guh." I squeezed my eyes shut against the fine hair-raising-panic that practically wiped out my heartbeat. Certain it was the young mother with the baby.

I squirmed. I was going to be sick. I'd sworn I'd at least gotten them out of the truck's path. Why was it shit happened so damn fast? One minute I'd been reading the paper, the next I was trapped as effectively as a fly to sticky-paper, a mother and most likely her baby...dead.

I tried to quill the guilt and the sick, my eyes roaming through the haze of the wreckage, looking more carefully. Maybe the baby had at least survived. After all a set of blue eyes was all I could make out.

A small half-moan escaped me as I tried to shove away from the wall. I must have been really out of it. I hadn't realized until now. I wasn't going anywhere. I was cheese-pressed to the floor by a large ceiling beam lying across my lap and pushing against my abdomen. I went to grip the beam to try and shove it off of me, but only my right arm worked. My left arm was heavy and numb, my fingers not even able to wiggle. I tried and tried, one handedly, but the beam wouldn't move an inch. It was rock-solid. Just my luck. Probably one of the only crossbeams left in the restaurant that was. Maybe I could push up with my legs. That was if I couldn't find my legs. They were buried under a bunch of crap from the beam down. Only my upper body from just below my rib cage up visible. I tried to take a deep breath and move again, but I was completely imprisoned.

I needed help. That baby could still be alive, buried in all this crap. I clung to that thought.

Tried to yell out loudly for help, but all I ended up doing was coughing heavily and nearly passing out.

I was exhausted, my breaths coming in squeaky, weak puffs. Damn it, I was a Winchester. If I had to kick, crawl, dig, scratch, or turn the world upside down to save someone else…I would.

I wouldn't give up. I'd try again, but first I had to gather up more strength. Keep from passing out.

While I tried to suck in air, I listened for any sort of crying or whimpering sounds, doubting I could hear over the chug of the truck's engine that was still running hot. Everything felt like it slowed to a near halt. I could hear feet, however, crazily scrambling over the wood planks and glass – most likely survivors trying to get out.

I wasn't sure where I was, but figured by the looks of all the pipes and dripping water, and large appliances it might be the kitchen area.

I felt strangely detached, ice-covered cold and old-dog tired and on the edge of consciousness. I tried to keep my head up but it kept rolling to one side, and I'd blink-off for a minute or two or ten or longer. I'd lost track of time so fast, so easily.

In a more lucid moment, it dawned on me that I should be feeling deep, radiating pain through every limb. After all…that tanker had to weigh in at least forty tons and the beam in my lap, at least a few hundred. But I didn't feel a thing, was just a little fuzzy. It surprised me really.

Looking straight ahead, over the few feet of rubble separating us, I stared at the monster truck. It was flipped onto its side. The chrome grill releasing heavy steam and the sweet smell of antifreeze escaping the engine. Thing had acted like a trash compacter, crushing whatever was in its path up against a wall, me included.

Everything whirred in slow motion to a near halt. I could hear feet crazily scrambling about over the wood planks and glass, most likely survivors trying to get out. I hadn't heard any sirens, so help must not have arrived yet. The town was rinky-dink what little I saw of it driving through. Did they even have an ambulance? Maybe help had to come from a neighboring town.

With my right hand, I gingerly searched for my cell, but it was missing. I started to feel a heavy sleepiness weight me down and blood dripped into my eyes. I tried to blink it away. Tried to stay conscious. Tried not to go into panic mode. I wasn't afraid of much. Two things really. Thankfully there were no rodeo clowns here. Yet, I could feel the panic welling up in my gut. This was one tight, small space and I wasn't escaping anytime soon. I had to concentrate on something, and I didn't want it to be the dead mom and her baby.

I thought about the driver. What had caused him to lose control of his truck? Sleep deprivation? Alcohol? Heart attack? Neighborhood monster?

The truck was several yards away. A bunch of crap mounded up around it, and I had to crane my neck and squint hard to see through the gunked-up bloody glass. I could just make out the large bulky shape of a man. He wasn't moving. I tried to look harder. Searching for the telltale sign of life or threat to life, but I couldn't see anything except his unmoving outline. If he was a monster threat, he'd have been up and out of that rig by now and -

"Gah." I reflexively jerked, completely surprised to see a shadowy silhouette that had just dropped down inside the truck next to the driver and started shifting around.

I called out weakly, but I was fairly certain no one could hear my meow for help over the chug of that engine.

Then as if that someone had read my mind, the engine cut out.

Something about the way the figure moved gave me comfort and it slowly slipped into my fuzzy head just exactly who the person was.

D'n," I weakly begged for my brother.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Rub-a-dub-dub time, Baby, you are so going to love this," I grinned, patting the steering wheel and waiting for the oncoming traffic to breeze by before I pulled into the do-it yourselfer carwash, and parked next to the vacuum and garbage cans.

Not bothering to shut off the engine, I hoped out and started picking the crap out from underneath the seats and off the floorboards.

"It's not your usual day at the spa, Sweetheart," I said, tossing a handful of trash into a can. I ran a loving hand along her hood. "I know you're used to a more high-class wash, but this will have to do." I clicked my tongue, eyeing her up and down. "You'd make one hot Asian chick, Baby, you know that?" I muttered and dug into my front jeans pocket for some change. Turning around to get the vacuum started, I was surprised to see an old man with a long beard and fuzzy eyebrows standing just on the other side of the bay gaping at me.

He waved a hand at the Pala. "You do know she's just a car." The old man shook his head, making a disgusting face. "So before you go exchanging parts, you might want to find yourself a real woman. Take her to the motel just down the street and rent yourself an instructional video to help you through the process"

"No…I…she's…it's not what …finding…it's no…no video…I…she…" I fought with my tongue and my brain to get some sort of explanation out.

"Get some therapy," the old man cursed, then hopped into his station wagon and drove quickly away.

I sighed, stunned as I watched the grumpy man whip dangerously out in front of a silver oil tanker and speed on down the road.

I guess to most people a car was just a car. But Baby...she wasn't just a car. Sam and I grew up in this car. She was our home. And our last link – besides the journal – to dad. Wherever he was, or wasn't.

"Don't worry about him, Baby. We're a class act. You're history on wheels and well…I'm just awesome history in the making." I shook the old man's scrutiny off and plopped a few quarters into the slot and quickly vacuumed the floorboards.

Pulling into the first wash bay, I shut off the engine and rolled up all the windows hoping out and grabbing the high pressured nozzle. I plopped in more coins and set the dial on rinse. Holding the spray wand and presoaking Baby, I blasted off the first round of caked on mud.

"You are so not just a car, Baby," I sweet-talked, switching over to wash, and holstering the spray wand in exchange for the bristled brush as it started to spit out foamy soap. "You're poetry in motion," I said sudsing her down.

Three bucks into the wash, and getting some good scrubbing in, I swore I felt the earth move under my feet.

"You feel that?" I glanced up and down the road, wondering if a herd of buffalo might be heading our way.

Not so much as a breeze blew. The road remained empty, and all I could hear were a few chirping birds, and the trickle of muddy water seeping down into the drain.

_Definitely strange._

"Huh." I moved over to the dial machine skipping the rinse cycle and going straight for spray wax when it happened again. It was nothing significant…just a slight rumbling under my feet that set me off-balance.

"Now I know you felt that." My gaze racked over the Impala, white, foamy soap drying on her like frosting on a cake. "You're not going to say you have a bad feeling about this, are you, Baby?" I sucked in a deep breath. "Hate it when you say that," I whispered, Sam's name flashing neon-hot-red across my brain – a warning.

My mouth went dry and my heart locked in my throat, the subtle earlier 'bad 'vibe in my gut growing too anxious. And in my experience gut feelings were nothing to screwball with or ignore.

"Sorry, Baby." I dropped the spray nozzle to the ground, waxy water squirting wildly across the pavement in all directions as I got in behind the wheel and revved her up.

Baby's tires gripped the pavement as we squealed out onto the road. Both hands clamped down on the wheel. My eyes narrowed to utmost concentration as I raced toward where I'd_ stupidly_ left my brother all alone.

I flipped the windshield wipers on to clear the soap scum and sat straight-backed in the seat, my hands shaking so badly I could barely hold Baby steady on the road.

White fencing and rows of corn blurred past. With each passing second, I become more frantic. My blood ran cold, sweat poured down my face, and a lump formed in my throat. I forced myself into composure, putting more of a death grip on the wheel, and swallowing the lump. It plopped into my stomach and sat – a heavy, greasy ashtray of glop – as I rounded a hairpin turn.

"Sammy," I barked, jumping at the sound of my own voice as his name absently slipped out.

Of course, I got no response, automatically shooting a glance over at the empty seat next to me.

I glared back out at the dirt road ahead, and pushed harder on the accelerator.

Baby did me proud, powering up and gaining more ground.

I didn't even bother to shut the windshield wipers off as they dry-scrapped and screeched across the glass. Tiny rocks popped and spat out from under her tires as I skidded around a corner, glancing in the review at my own cloud of dust. Normally, I'd have a huge smile on my face driving like this. Not today.

Once again, I scrutinized the seat next to me and pictured Sam's annoyed bitch-face. The one he always got when I went all Thunder Road.

My heart beat faster and a rawness I couldn't put into words rippled down my back. I scooted to the edge of my seat, practically leaning over the wheel, willing Baby on with my body.

I past the store fronts, noticing a hoard of people exiting buildings in a panicked rush and heading down the sidewalks in the same direction I was going.

Baby and I whipped so fast around that last corner I was certain she'd gone up on two wheels. Thumping up over the curb, we flew into Sonny's parking lot.

"Son of a bitch," I cursed, immediately putting on the breaks and screeching to an abrupt stop.

I sat in shock peering out the windshield at the swarms of people running helter-skelter every which way. Thick, red-dust clouds hung in the air and more than a half-dozen cars had been upturned and smashed and crushed into one another. I glanced over at the attached motel. A huge corner chunk was missing as if something had taken a bite out of it.

I sucked in a deep breath. "Why do you always have to be so awesomely right, Dean?" I swiftly got out of the car, weaving in and out of the chaos.

I couldn't take big enough steps, my mouth dry, cold shivers racing down my spine. It was disorienting. The place had been turned on its end. Like a Godzilla trampled Tokyo.

Instinctually, I looked to the ground searching for Godzilla-sized footprints, only to see Godzilla-sized black skid marks instead.

"What the?" I took everything in all in at once.

A well stacked woman in a short, pink skirt and cowgirl boots was standing alone off to one side, crying hysterically. My eyes tracked to where the bank of payphones used to be. They were completely gone. My gaze flew to the restaurant and the world suddenly swirled in slow motion around me, the air too thick to breathe.

The barn-like restaurant looked like there'd been a massive explosion. The strong, astringent order of diesel fuel hit my nostrils and I recoiled as it all sank in. Knowing it was the tanker trunk that had blown past me back at the carwash, even though there were no signs of it other than the skid marks. It'd obviously buried itself deep into the building.

How could I not have seen that coming? I shook my head. I did see it coming. Twelve minutes down the road while washing Baby.

I exhaled sharply, stepping slowly around a man huddled on the ground with a blanket draped over his shoulders, holding a mutilated body of a woman in his arm.

My breath started coming in short pants and I couldn't take big enough, fast enough steps. "Sam," I whispered, edgily searching the swarm. _How hard could it be to find a six-foot grumpy-Sasquatch in all this mess?_ "Where are you? Where are you?" I mumbled, eyes darting, fists clenched as I tried not to panic.

I desperately blocked out all the white noise. Barely even blinking, pouring all my concentration into finding my brother.

He had to be out in the parking lot. He'd be triaging the injured. Keeping people calm. "Come on, come on," I muttered. "No way didn't you get out of there. No friggin' way, man. You'd be the first one to see that monster truck, Sammy. Hell, little brother, you'd sense it before you ever saw it." I shook my head and my numb brain seemed to activate. "Cell," I growled. "Stupid, Dean." I went to get my phone out of my jacket pocket, but my hand shoved into nothing but air. No jacket, no jacket pocket, no cell phone. I'd left them in the car. "Shit, shit, shit." Not wanting to waste time trying to make my way back through the chaos, I did a slow spin searching every corner of the lot and called out, "Sam."

Nothing.

No one even bothered to look my way, too busy freaking out or bleeding.

"Sam!" I yelled at the top of my lungs. "Sammy!" Hands on top of my head my slow spin turned into a merry-go-round spin. "Sam!"

I stopped dead when I spotted the mother in the spotted dress that had been struggling with the screaming baby. She was standing just outside the restaurant, cradling her still screaming baby in one arm. Her other arm was limp at her side staring at the destruction and shaking her head in disbelief, or more than likely shock.

"Miss," I called as I crunched over the carpet of glass. Maybe she'd seen Sam.

She didn't acknowledge me.

"Miss!" I called louder as I came to stand before her.

"It all happened so fast," She mumbled absently.

"Hey!" I ducked down and peered up at her, trying to connect. "You okay?" I noted she had a few bleeding cuts on her face, and that arm was defiantly broken, but nothing about her looked life threatening. "Miss?"

She still didn't respond, completely emotionless. I'd seen zombies with more life in them. I glanced at the baby. He had one small cut on his pouty lip, but otherwise the baby looked to be in good shape.

I took the young mother by her good arm and gave her a gentle shake.

Her eyes slowly came to meet with mine. "Sweetheart, you okay?"

She nodded.

"I'm looking for my brother." I held my hand up, waving it four inches over my head. "Very tall, polite guy, dewy eyed."

Her chin began to quiver and crocodile-sized tears sprang to her eyes as she held the crying baby closer.

"He'd have his nose in a newspaper," I added.

The baby stopped crying the instant his mother started. She tipped her quivering chin toward the flattened restaurant. "He…he…pushed us out of the way. It all happened so fast. If he hadn't…we…we'd be…we'd be…we'd both be…" she glanced away, whole body trembling as she became hysterical. "Oh, God."

Before I could catch hold of her, she dropped to her knees sobbing and the infant started crying again.

"Sammy," I breathed out, fine hairs rising up to a prickle the back of my neck. I stared down at her. Of course Sam didn't get out of there. How'd I think otherwise. He wouldn't flee when he saw that monster truck bearing down on them. He'd look around him and lay his life out for the first person that he saw.

My head whipped up; taking in further the demolished building that looked like it'd been through a war.

"Damnit!" I turned to run into the building, but skidded to an abrupt halt. "Be smart, Dean," I muttered under my breath.

_Who knew what condition I'd find Sam in? _

"Focus, Dean."

The difference of a minute could kill my brother, but so could the difference of not having what he needed…right when he needed it. "Screw that." Hard as it was, I turned tail. Racing back to where I'd parked Baby. She seemed so friggin' ass far away, but in reality it was only a few yards.

As I skipped left and dodged right back through the hordes of freaked-out people, I could feel my blood turning cold the farther away from Sam I got. "Stay on task, stay on task," I chanted.

I leapt over a crumpled car fender and a barstool and kicked a plastic garbage bin out of my path before I finally reached Baby.

My fingers were tingly and numb and fumbling with the door handle like helpless blocks of ice. "Come the hell on!" I yelped impatiently. "Open, bitch!" I commanded finally getting a grip and yanking the door open. "No time, no time." I reached up under the front seat for our military field kit, and hastily grabbed my jacket. Backing out of the car I slammed the door shut, slipped into my jacket, and slung the leather satchel over my shoulder dashing back toward the building.

As I ran I did a mental checklist of what I knew to be in the kit: Gauze Bandages, Antiseptic, suture set, space blanket, water, matches, salt, flashlight, duct tape among the few items. Judging by the building and the shape of a lot of the civilians scattered around, the kit hardly came close to the sort of supplies that I might need.

Dad may be M.I.A. but his voice still boomed in my head.

_Remember, Dean, the most important piece of medical equipment does not lie inside this satchel; it's in your ability. All the supplies and equipment in the world will do jack if you don't keep calm and remember your training._

"I swear to you, Sammy, you better still be breathing," I said through gritted teeth, finally reaching the restaurant.

I had to wiggle and worm and suck in my gut to get past the unnaturally bent entrance. The crumpled door acting more like a soup can lid bent inward, than a door.

Inside, the lighting was dim making everything look creepy, and the scent of tangy barbeque sauce and sweet meat had been replaced by the smell of burning rubber and diesel.

Sirens blared in the distance. Help still a ways away. Their response time sucked. How big was this damn town anyway?

I stared at the absolutely crazy amount of crap thrown all about. It was an alien world of dull color and shadowy corners. An array of items was strewn across the length of the building. Toilets, sinks, refrigerators, dishes, spatulas, tongs, forks, basting brushes, coffee makers, aprons, table clothes, and in the center of it all the stainless steel bulk of a tanker truck, flipped over onto its side, right, rear wheels spinning, engine still chugging, filling the air with hot fumes.

"Sam," I called in a panic, rooting around as carefully as I could through the topsy-turvy mess. If Sam was lying under all this crap, I didn't want to injure him further by stepping on him….if Sam was lying under that truck – "Sammy," I roared. "You answer me! Right now, dude!"

I paused to listen.

Everything was quiet except for the running engine of the truck and a leaky pipe sound coming from what I figured once was the kitchen. Sweat dripped down my face and I swiped it away as I continued on.

I didn't see Sam.

Didn't see anyone for that matter…maybe he'd gotten out. I could hope. First thing was first. I pulled my cell out, speed dialing Sam. Hoping he would answer, hoping at the least the phone would ring and if he was trapped in here it would serve as a beacon. What was that lame poem the geek always liked to quote…something about hope being a bitch with feathers?

The call went straight to voice mail.

_"This is Sam. I'm currently unable to take your call. Please leave your name, phone number, and your message, and I will contact you as soon as possible. If this message is urgent, press 3 to have me paged. Thanks."_

"Damn you, Sammy, where are you?" I pressed three and disconnected, holding the phone down at my side and listening intently.

A very feint _bzzzzzzz-bzzzzzzz _came from somewhere off to my right. The sound did nothing to relieve. It scared the crap out of me. It meant Sammy was indeed in here, and worse, he was not responding to me.

"Friggin' fine time to have your phone on vibrate brother."

I moved toward the sound, around a section of twisted tables and chairs that took on more the shape of modern art. I squinted at a splatter of red glistening on a large piece of jagged window glass on the floor. The buzzing had stopped so I called Sam's phone again, playing the high-tech hot and cold game as I picked through broken dishes and cups and splinters of wood. The buzzing grew louder The good news…I was on the right track. The bad news… the closer I got to my brother's phone the more blood I saw. I finally found the phone under a half-eaten slab of ribs.

It was Sam's alright.

Swallowing hard, I pocketed both phones, pretending the slippery, tacky wetness on Sam's was merely Sonny's homemade, secret recipe, when in reality it was more blood than sauce.

A second later I saw what I was hoping not to see.

"No, no, no." My heart headed straight to my feet when I caught sight of the unattached, gooey arm lying in a corner –no body in site.

Through the dim and dusty lighting, I could see the limb had been cutoff at the elbow. Desperately trying to keep my trembling knees from buckling, I hesitantly stepped up to inspect the appendage more closely.

"Please," I whispered, cold fear causing goose bumps to spike up like pin-needles all over my body. I bent down teetering slightly, peering at the arm. "Ha," a burst of hysterical laugher escaped my quivering lips when I saw the French manicured nails and the large diamond ring displayed on a blue-gray middle finger. "Okay, okay, we're fine." I straightened up. "It's okay, not you, not him, Dean, not Sam."

My laughter turned into a groan suddenly guilty for being so overjoyed. Some poor rich woman lost an arm and most likely her life. I straightened back up and headed for the tranker.

"Friggin' graveyard barbeque," I snapped angrily. "Congratulations, Sammy," I growled. "Only you could jinx a simple food run." I inched along the side of the tanker. "Hey, is anybody up in there?" I called out, clambering to the front end. "Hello, can anyone hear me?" I grabbed onto a front tire and it took some effort, but I heaved myself up to perch on the driver's side door. The window was rolled down and I leaned in to peer down inside the cab.

The first thing I noticed was the shattered windshield and the huge blood stain there that was surrounded by what appeared to be globs of pink bubble gum. Only took a second to register it wasn't bubble gum that I was looking at, but human meat and pieces of bone.

Crammed under the steering wheel was a heavyset man, the left side of his face gone, legs gruesomely twisted, one hand clutching his chest, and the other bent behind him. In the faint light I could just make out his one remaining eye. It was frozen wide and looking up at me as if pleading for help –help that didn't make it on time.

The truck suddenly sputtered and rocked. "Holy crap," I yelped, flattening a hand to the door for balance, keeping from tumbling headfirst into the cab. She was probably running on empty, exhaust fumes taking over the air. I figured it was best to shut the engine off. I dropped down into the cab, trying to ignore the sickening thud as I landed on one of the dead trucker's legs. "Sorry, pal," I muttered, shifting my weight off of him, glass popping beneath my feet as I reached for the key and shut the tanker down.

Outside, the sirens were screaming loudly as they finally neared.

I started to climb back out of the cab but a familiar sensation deep inside took me by storm. I hunched over, fumbling about the cab controls until I found the headlight switch and flipped them on and followed the high beam of light.

I narrowed my eyes, straining to see out the gut-splattered windshield.

Tables, chairs, a large gas stove, giant-sized refrigerator, butcher blocks, granite countertops, blood-stained white aprons and blenders redecorated everything in early Martha Stewart. Like I figured, damn tanker had broken through into the kitchen, tossing and shoving and plowing everything into a crunched mound as if it were nothing more than snow.

"Aw, hell!" I drew back, sucking in a huge gulping gasp of air as my eyes locked onto a set of bloodshot ones that squinted up from under a veil of blood-matted hair. "Sammy!" I barked loudly, lunging upward and scrambling up out of the cab quick as a cat. "Sam." I clambered off the tanker snagging my jeans on the metal grill as I leapt down, debris shifting under my weight.

By the light of the headlights I could see Sam. Only a few feet away, shoved up against a wall, taking in half-breath after half-breath and very much awake.

"Dude, talk to me," I demanded.

"In a …" Sam's Adams apple bobbed in his throat. "Tight spot," he coughed and cursed under his breath.

"We've been in tighter," I blurted out, trying for a smile as I inched my way toward him. "Some predicament you got yourself in," I said wading through the pile of what felt like never ending crap.

It looked to me like that friggin' truck had eyes only for Sam. The way it was angled, and Sam's current position - pinned to the wall like a swatted fly. He'd been in the direct path of that bitch when it had hit, and it had him cornered. His face was ass-white and blood trailed down from a deep gash on his forehead to drip onto his shirt. Time was valuable; he needed a hospital as soon as possible. I'd have to dig him out. Fast but carefully.

From the looks of the driver he'd had a heart attack and lost control of his rig. Fuck if I was losing Sam to some freak accident. My fingers trembled as I moved chunks of plaster and sheets of jagged paneling out of the way.

"D'n." Sam's brow creased as he struggled to free himself, his breathing sounding like he'd swallowed down the wrong way.

"Easy. Easy, little brother, don't struggle. I'm on it." I was scared. Of what I could see Sam was battered and bruised. But it was the parts I couldn't see that worried me.

How he was even conscious I had no clue.

"I – I tried to save her, Dean," Sam muttered, eyes fluttering as he glanced at something a few inches away from him.

"Hold on," I said, concentrating on shoving aside a large piece of twisted copper piping. "Almost there." I practically had to tiptoe over to him. The mound of crap was unstable and the closer I got the more stuff shifted and I didn't want to risk anything jamming Sam further against that wall.

Sam continued to struggle. "Baby," he hissed between clenched teeth, eyes darting nervously about.

"Dude, she's parked outside without a scratch on her, now just chill."

"I thought – "Sam's head flopped weakly forward, a waterfall of tangled hair hiding his face.

"Hey. Hey. Come on, man, stay with me," I encouraged, from only a few inches away.

Sam didn't move or say a word.

My whole body shook, consumed in terror.

"Sam!" I blurted out, tripping the last two steps and falling to my knees at his side. "Sammy." I frantically felt for a pulse careful of the bruises along his neck.

His pulse was there. Strong and steady, but he was really short on breath.

"Dean." Sam groaned, coming around, hand reaching up and fingers curling around my wrist.

"It's okay, I'm right here," I said, taking a breath and trying to stop my hands from trembling as I did a five second search for initial life-threatening injury. I didn't get too far. Aside from his misshapen left arm and a laceration across his forehead, most of him was hidden from me, buried under the restaurant. A wooden support beam compressed up against his lower abdomen, squashing him to the wall.

I dropped the satchel next to me and dug inside for some gauze, pressing it as tenderly as I could across his forehead.

"Ow," he uttered beneath his breath.

"How's the pain?" I asked.

"Was-was no pain until you came along," Sam murmured groggily

I startled. _How could he not be feeling any pain? _

I studied Sam's face closely. His breathing wasn't too steady and he was pale, but he oddly didn't look to be in any real pain.

"Can you please just get me out of here, Dean?" he pleaded.

Sam's quivering lower lip jerked me into action remembering my little brother was highly claustrophobic.

"Press this in." I took Sam by the right hand, and placed it against the gauze. "Hold it there, okay?"

"Yeah." Sam tried to blink an annoying strand of hair out of his eyes.

I swiped the piece away for him, studying him a few seconds more. "You got it?"

"I'm okay," Sam said, going for nonchalant. "Can you lift the beam?" he asked on a shiver.

"Watch the master," I blurted out, jumping up to my feet, I wrapped my fingers around the beam and tugged upward.

It was like trying to pick a one-hundred year-old-tree out of the ground – roots and all.

Sam moaned and tried to shift his weight, causing him to moan louder.

The sound opened up a black pit in my stomach. "It'll be okay, Sammy. Give me a minute," I spoke right in his ear. "Getting you out of here, buddy." I pulled and labored, gritting my teeth. "Aw…think I pulled a muscle in my groin," I panted, but kept right on pulling.

"Stop." Sam's hand clawed for a hold of my arm. "Can't lift it alone," he said with cool, quiet reason.

"Never, ever say can't to me," I berated him.

I struggled to find purchase in the rubble using all that I had in me to raise that beam just an inch. Every muscle and ligament stretched to burning. My whole body shook with the strain, veins in my neck threatening to burst, while wood splinters bit into my hands like tiny nails.

"Get! Off! Him!" I roared my demand, sweat pouring over my eyes.

The thing just wouldn't budge.

"D'n stop." Sam called out in a strangely sleepy tone.

"S…a...m..m...y!" I let out a wounded battle cry, giving one last huge tug, swearing I heard something inside of me crack and break. "Son of a bitch." I fell back down by his side breathless, staring at Sam and terrified half out of my gourd as he'd suddenly passed out on me.

TBC…


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everything had just gone black and syrupy, but a comforting voice kept reaching out with words of reassurance. It kept me treading water when all I really wanted to do was sink.

Something pressed against my brow. "Told you to hold this there, man."

My eyes fluttered open, but they felt heavy and the effort didn't seem worth it.

"Hey, buddy," an excited voice called out. ""Can you do that again?" A hand slid to the back of my neck, supporting, while another patted annoyingly at my cheek. "Sam!"

"What?"

"None of that, bro."

"Of what?" My eyes fluttered back open.

"No amount of sleep is going to make you beautiful, dude, so you, you stay awake, hear?"

"Dean?"

"How's your head?" he asked, looking at the gauze pad he had against my head a moment ago, while cool fingers kneaded the back of my neck.

"Just fuzzy," I muttered.

"It's fuzzier than you think, Sammy. Bleeding's stopped," Dean said, tossing the bloody material aside. "But your pupils are dilated. You know what that means, concussion."

My gaze broke away from Dean and I looked around. Everything was completely fuzzy and felt slow.

"Sammy, don't you dare think about falling back asleep!" Dean called in a loud voice.

"Not," I muttered.

"Then open your eyes, damn it!"

I frowned. When did I shut them?

"Yeah, okay," I whispered hoarsely, forcing my eyes open. All of this opening and closing eye thing was exhausting. "Help me up." I struggled to move.

Dean's hand splayed ever so carefully across my chest. "That's not happening just yet, buddy," he stated very calmly, but I could tell he was a twitchy mass of nerves. "You got everything including the kitchen sink piled up around you. You're out for a few minutes and you forgot already?" He frowned.

I glanced down. _Oh, yeah. I forget._

"Don't know how you do it, little brother, but luck always seems to pass you by."

"Didn't pass by," I coughed. "St-still alive," I said on a shiver.

Dean nodded. "Are you sure nothing hurts?" He pulled out a space-blanket from the satchel and slowly worked it behind me wrapping it around my shoulders.

Only pain I felt was the steady pounding in my head that wasn't there before. It scrambled my brains and blurred my vision and made me nauseous.

"Sam, I asked you a question?" Dean barked, sounding a lot like dad.

I'd forgotten about that too. My quest to find dad. "Dad," the word slipped out my lips.

"Screw, dad," Dean hollered. "What hurts?"

"Not much," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Sam?" Dean challenged.

"Head…hurts," I admitted to my pushy as hell brother, "And my lungs and throat burn a bit." It was no lie.

"Told you, concussion," Dean growled. "Let me check you out better." He bent over me; his shaking hands awkwardly patting down the parts of me that were exposed.

I squirmed a little, just wanting to be free of the beam.

"Hey, don't try to move. That left arm. It's definitely broken."

Took a minute, but I got my eyes to shift enough so I could see the misshapen limb. It hung lose down at my side like it wasn't even my arm. "Weird," I muttered.

"Yeah, you are." Dean moved a hand along my rib cage tenderly his face contorting more and more as he went along.

"Broken rib?" I asked.

"You've got four," he hissed. "And you didn't even flinch."

"Huh?"

Dean looked nervously down at the large rectangular beam lying across my lap and pushing against my stomach. "I can't budge this by myself," he said flatly.

"Didn't we already establish that?" I cocked my head staring curiously at the beam.

"We already established that," Dean parroted sounding slightly pissed. "Least your memory is kicking back in," he snapped sounding even more pissed.

It felt wrong not to be in pain. It was as if the timber was light as air, not even there. I didn't want to think about how much a beam like that actually weighted. A beam like that could kill someone. A beam like that could crush your insides. It quickly became evident to me that was probably what was happening here. I just wasn't feeling it yet.

I looked back up at Dean. His eyes were wide and I could tell he was scared half out of his gourd.

"Dean, don't worry," I said lightly. "I'll make it."

"Holding you to that, Sam," he said thickly, going about tossing pieces of crap away from me. "Let me see if I can dig enough of this debris away from you, maybe then we can slide you out from under that fucking thing."

As I watched my brother work, I forced myself to think. There was something else I was missing. The reason I probably didn't get out of the way of that tanker in the first place. A flash of memory struck me hard and I suddenly remembered what I didn't want to remember.

My stomach knotted and a loud grating moan rose from my throat.

"Whoa! Dean abruptly stopped digging, hands held up high like I had a gun pointed at him. "What is it? What hurts?"

"Over there." I dropped my gaze to a spot a few feet away. "They're still there." The dead, pale-blue eyes stared back at me in accusation. _You didn't save us. Why didn't you save us? _

"What? Where? What are you talking about, Sam?"

"I'm sorry. Sorry," I gagged.

"Sammy?"

My jaw muscle wouldn't stop twitching and I couldn't get any more words out. I started shaking and swallowing real hard, thick, hot bile bubbling at the back of my throat.

I gagged again.

"Crap." Dean grabbed hold of my chin and tipped my head gently off to one side and I puked once and dry heaved three times.

When I was done, Dean guided my head back over leveling me with a look. "Sam?"

I squeezed my eyes shut. "She's over there." I gave a small head gesture.

"Who?" Dean had his gun out before I knew it, eyes darting nervously about.

"No gun, Dean," I said, swallowing down to keep from vomiting. "A mother and her baby," I said licking my lips and tasting a mixture of rust and sour. "I…I tried to get them out of the trucks path."

"Are you talking about the one wearing a blue- spotted dress?" Dean questioned.

"Blue-polka dots," I amended.

"You say tomato...I say shut up." Dean rolled his eyes, then softly said, "Not her, Sammy."

"Her baby, she was…" I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. "It's them, Dean…I tried –"

"Sam," Dean insisted more firmly. "I saw them both, dude, safe and sound outside the restaurant. Baby was drooling and crying up a storm." Dean gripped my right shoulder and squeezed.

"No!" I shrugged him off. I couldn't save Jessica…I knew I didn't save that mom and her baby either."It's her," I squawked. "Over there…it's them. Couldn't…I couldn't. Dean, they –" I pressed my lips together, breathing heavily through my nose, my nostrils burning.

Everything around me started to spin out of control and I did the only thing I could do. Slammed my eyes shut.

Dean was yammering, but I couldn't hear him or didn't want to hear him.

I felt a cold breeze race down my spine as Dean left my side.

I kept my eyes shut. Listening to the frenzied sound of Dean rummaging, it sounded like he was digging through dry crunchy leaves._ He found her. He was trying to save her. _

"Too late. You're too late," I whispered.

"Sam! Open your eyes."

I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, catching the sick smell of blood and gas.

"Open your eyes and look over here. It's not them."

I couldn't. If I had to see those frightened pale-blue eyes again, or worse, the tiny mutilated body of that baby my consciousness was going to fly the coop again.

"Sam! Damn it! It's not them. Look!"

With forced bravado I did as Dean told me to, staring right into the cold, flat-blue eyes of an old man.

I gasped.

"See," Dean soothed, running a hand over the man's face to close his eyes. "Not them, bro. It's the Cadbury guy," he said sadly holding up the orange safety flag that had been waving on the back of his bike just a short time ago. "Believe me. I saw the mom and kid, Sam. She's the one who told me what you did and you did it." Dean crawled back over to me. "You did it." He looked me right in the eye. "You saved them, Sammy." Dean slipped a warm hand to the back of my neck. "The mom and the drool bug are both outside the restaurant. The baby's shaken up and the mom's arm looked broken, but they are fine. You risked yourself and shoved them out of the way."

I shook my head trying to take in the words. Dean had said it enough times, but I was still having a hard time believing it. "They're both alive?"

I stiffened and my eyes must have bugged out of my head because Dean got real concerned, taking my face in-between both his hands.

"How the hell did you ever pass the SAT let alone get into Stanford?" He toddled my head slightly. "You do save people from time to time, Sam. And you're not the only one who makes mistakes. I did my part of the research on the last hunt, too. So stop trying to take all the credit for that one. You hear me?"

"Oh, thank god," I muttered letting the news truly sink into my scrambled brain as Dean brought out a bottle of water and a washcloth.

Outside, a considerable amount of screaming and squawking and screeching and shrieking kicked up.

"What's happening out there?" I puffed.

"The usual mayhem and chaos that goes along with a truck taking out half a motel and an entire restaurant full of people," Dean uttered, wiping my face and neck, the cloth coming away bloody. He paused to listen. "Sounds like the entire Cleveland Zoo escaped." Dean glanced impatiently around. "Where the hell are they?"

"They'll be here, Dean."

"Not fast enough for my tastes," he muttered, head cocked at an angle listening intently.

"Just got to be patient," I told him.

My eyes felt heavy and I closed them, right off the blackness swimming in.

A hand braced across my chest. "Eye's open, Sammy." Dean's voice stern and rough

I pried my eyes open only to see Dean swimming before me in the dusky dim lighting as thunder rolled through my head. "Head hurts," I finally admitted to Dean and myself.

"That's it." Dean's spine stiffened and I could see the rage building in his eyes. "Patience can kiss my ass. I'm going to find help."

Dean went to stand and I reached out and caught his arm.

"No. P-please, just stay," I begged him feeling embarrassed that I sounded like a four-year-old.

Dean briefly hung his head, and then looked up at me. "Sammy," he said, his tone awash with softness. "I can't risk waiting on them to get to you. We need to get you out of here right now. Need you to trust me on this. Can you?"

My lips tightened and a chill quivered through my body as the thought of Dean leaving.

'Yes.' I nodded mutely not trusting my voice.

Dean hesitated, considering something. Then he fumbled in his jacket.

"What are you doing?"

"Here," he said, yanking out the stupid musical card he'd been annoying me with in the car before the crap hit the fan…I mean restaurant. "Hang on to this." He placed the card in my hand. "You good?" he questioned, eyebrows going high on his forehead.

I let out a shuddering breath and gripped the card tight.

We held each other's gaze a moment.

"I'll be right back, Sam." Dean cupped my chin. "Drink a little first." He pressed the bottle to my lips.

I did as I was told, holding back a cough when I swallowed down the wrong way.

"Better?" Dean asked.

I opened and closed the musical card in response.

"Now you're talking my language," Dean gave a troubled-sounding chuckle and a wink then was gone.

Even after Dean had scrambled out of sight, I continued to open and close the card. My eyesight seemed to be failing and it was getting harder to breathe. Adrenaline wearing off? Shock? Worse? Instead of thinking about it, or Jess, or dad, or that girl, I hummed along to the Happy Birthday tune, trying to keep my consciousness from running away.

TBC…


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It killed me not to spare a look back at Sam when I heard Smoke on the Water chime in. For a second I almost ran back, but I sucked that up and ran toward the outside sounds of loud voices and rumbling engines. He needed help now. I couldn't risk staying by his side and holding his hand, waiting for help to find us. Much as I wanted to.

My pulse was racing by the time I burst outside. I froze, blinking at the dizzy assortment of red and blue and yellow flashing lights.

Tow trucks, police cars, ambulances, and two fire trucks that were just now pulling up the road, more flashing lights and sirens blaring.

Police barked out orders, while EMT's hurried to help those in need. Civilians were everywhere. Many crying, some screaming, a dozen or more still lying on the ground in pain, several being rolled away on stretchers, yet others completely covered with white sheets stained red. They had their hands full out here and hadn't even made it to the building yet.

Friggin' parking lot looked like it'd been turned into a military war operation, only on a smaller downhome scale.

Gathering my wits, I pegged the Med-tech in charge. A thin man, about as tall as Sam with long, very curly brown hair, a deep scowl set on his face. He was all high-energy marching from one end of the lot to the other, commanding and confident.

"Over here," I hollered, but it came out horsey sounding and no one seemed to hear. Not willing to put another inch of distance between Sammy and me, I raised my hands high in the air. "Help! I need help!" I screamed like a freaked out civilian shocking myself at the panic in my voice.

Curly snapped to attention, whirling my way.

I kept waving. "Someone's trapped in here," I informed.

Without hesitation, Curly grabbed the attention of another EMT, and I clenched my fists feeling nauseated as they took a moment to gather up their boxes of supplies and head my way.

Timing was everything.

And right now time moved like it was broken. And so was my little brother.

I bit my lip resisting the urge to yell _hurry the fuck up_.

Sam needed me, not some lame birthday card.

I was dealing with a whole set of emotions here. Fear, worry, panic, impatience, and they all combined into one solid emotion - anger - just as the EMT's jogged over.

"What you got?" The tall curly haired one asked.

"I got a little brother pinned down in their by that fucking truck," I bellowed breathlessly, feeling like I wanted to gank the guy for no damn good reason.

"Hey, buddy, just calm down," Curly said softly. "Anyone else in there?"

"Two, dead. One bloody arm far as I know."

"Yeah, that'd make three casualties," Curly sucked in a breath, and nodded.

"Tell us where your brother is and we'll get him out," his bald and slightly shorter partner said.

"Oh, hell if I'm not going back in there." Without another word, I turned and bolted for the restaurant - all blood and guts and glory.

The two EMT's had no choice but to follow me in.

"You guys have one serious response problem," I protested venomously, pivoting sideways to get through the tuna can lid of a door.

"Thirty four minutes, I know. It sucks ass," Baldy bellowed, squeezing in next.

I was shocked they didn't try to keep me out. But then judging by the seen-it-all-done-it-all-look in their eyes they probably knew they couldn't stop me.

"We're from the neighboring town. No ambulance or firehouse service here...slim funds," Curly barked in an angry tone, following right behind. "It's totally unacceptable and we're rallying to get it changed."

"Not fast enough!" I steamed, running ahead of them. "This way," I informed, the mangled debris slowing us down.

"I'd tell you to write your congressman, but you know the drill. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of bullshit," one of them hissed.

"That's one big ass truck." I heard the other gasp as we approached the tanker.

"Bitch has him cornered at the back of the restaurant. This way." I glanced over my shoulder.

"I smell gas," Curly muttered.

"Jesus. That's not gas. That's jet fuel. Got to call in Hazmat and get everyone out of that parking lot. This thing could erupt like a volcano," Baldy informed, whipping out a walkie-talkie and hanging back.

That gut-wrenching black pit in my stomach coiled into a squirming ball, but I kept moving. "What's thier response time? Half-past the monkey's ass?" I barked sarcastically.

"Pretty much," Curly said softly ss he came up even with me.

"Aw, come on!" I blew my cool.

"Let's just concentrate on your brother and get him taken care of fast as we can," Curly suggested.

I nodded. "He's boxed in on the other side of the tanker," I said. "We have to climb up and over the cab then back down to get to him." I put action to words, clambering up, Curly right behind me. "Sammy, hang on, we're coming," I shouted.

I didn't get an answer.

"Was he conscious when you left him," Curly asked.

"Barely. Sammy," I called again in a helpless panic. "Truck plowed half the restaurant along with him and shoved him up into a corner. A ceiling beam landed in his lap and he can't move," I informed.

As we reached the top of the truck, Curly paused to peer down into the cab at the driver, whipping out a flashlight. "You sure he's -"

"...as a doornail," I whispered, before he could even bother to hop down in and check.

Curly let out a breathy sigh, then cocked his head sideways. "Is that Smoke on the Water I hear?" he asked as we both climbed down off the cab.

"That's my boy." I smiled. "Sammy," I beckoned.

"D'n."

My throat worked at how small Sam's voice had gotten. I wet my lips. "Coming, Sam. We're coming over to you."

The trucks headlights had weakened, but we could still see Sam's form pressed up against the wall, birthday card in hand just the way I'd left him.

"Thought you said he was your little brother?" Curly shook his head in shock.

"He is," I deadpanned, stepping slightly off to the right.

"I was expecting a kid."

"He is. He's my kid brother. Careful," I said, "There's a body there." I pointed to where I knew the old man to be.

"That's Frank Hanson!" Curly's voice broke. "Shit." He moved ahead of me, dropping to a crouch near the body. "Damn it, old man," he muttered, flashlight lighting up the dead man's face as he needlessly checked for a pulse.

I felt bad for the guy, but there was nothing to do for poor Frank Hanson now. Wasting no more time, I headed straight for Sam squatting down as close to him as I could.

"Dean," Sam peered out at me from behind strands of damp, stringy hair. "You have to go….get out of here."

"We're all getting out of here, Sammy." I pushed his hair away from his eyes that looked even more glazed and confused. At least his head wound hadn't started bleeding again. "After this is all over we are so getting your whacky hair cut," I joked.

"You don't get it," Sam snarled.

"I get it, and no brother of mine's going to go around looking like a chick," I said with a smile, gesturing behind me. "I brought help."

Sam looked at me wide-eyed, straightening his shoulders and pushing back further against the wall. "I smell gas," he spat like the cornered cat he was. "Go, Dean." He crunched the birthday card in his hand, knuckles white as bone.

"Shut up, and chill out," I said sternly, edging closer and wincing seeing just how pale and shaky Sam had gotten. "I'm not leaving you."

"Dean." Sam pasted on a bitchface.

"No." I pasted on my stay-cool-to the last-drop face, wrapping my hands around that support beam again.

Curly suddenly was there, kneeling on the opposite side of me, looking Sam over critically.

"Help me lift this off of him." I took a deep breath and started to pull upward in a better than awesome effort needing to get the beam off of Sam.

"Ho, ho, ho. Hold it there, Stallone." Curly slapped both his hands down over mine and squeezed.

"What the hell are we holding for, Bad Santa?" I roared, glaring at him.

"Dean," Sam scolded.

"We can't rush this," Curly stated firmly.

Ignoring them both, I gripped the wood beam tighter. "We need to get this beam off my brother right now!"

"I'm not kidding," Curly said, squeezing my hands harder, digging his nails into my skin. "Don't make me get a pry bar."

"Don't make me punch you in the face," I volleyed.

"Dean, please," Sam gulped.

"Shut up, Sam. This isn't about you," I snapped not taking my eyes off Curly.

"Dude," Sam panted. "From where I'm sitting it's all about me."

"Today's special is trust, Dean," Curly said softly.

Something in the way Curly had used my name as he continued to hold my hands widened that black pit in my stomach and I eased off my hold of the beam.

Curly gave me a 'you good now' nod.

"Today's special better be damn good," I muttered, sitting back on my hunches.

"There's a gas leak. Get my brother out of here." Sam turned hazy eyes on Curly.

"We're taking care of it," Curly said brightly, letting go of my hands finally, leaving behind nail prints. "And none of us is going anywhere without you," he added flashing me a smile.

"What he said," I glared at Sam.

Sam stared coldly back at me, lips pressed thin, unblinking, jaw tight as chiseled granite.

Curly glanced back at me. "Sammy always this bitchy?" he joked, obviously trying to get Sam and I both to relax.

I played along. "You don't know the half of it."

"Sam. Call me, Sam." Sam's shoulders slumped and he let up on the death grip he had on the birthday card.

"Only I get to call him Sammy," I explained.

"I understand," Curly said. "Nice job with the space blanket keeping him warm and stopping that gash on his head from bleeding," Curly said opening his box of toys. "I'm going to check your vitals first, Sam." He pulled out a blood pressure cuff.

"His left arms broken," I piped up quickly.

Curly cocked his head, a very sympathetic look on his face. "I can see that."

There came the shuffle of feet and a low moan. "Shit. Frank." Then Baldy was there, crouched next to me, setting to work. "Hazmat's rolling in hot."

"Good," Curly handed the blood pressure cuff over to baldy. "This is Sam, only his brother Dean gets to call him, Sammy."

"Hi, Sam," Baldy said, immediately wrapping the armband around Sam's upper left bicep.

"This egg head is my partner Charlie and my name's B.J," Curly introduced them both finally.

Sam and I exchanged quirky looks.

"Told you a million times to use your full name," Charlie chuckled, placing the stethoscope in his ears and squeezing the rubber bulb rapidly. "Everybody knows B.J. stands for blow –"

"Bobby Joe," BJ grouched pulling out a pen light and clicking it on, thumb gently caressing Sam's temple as he flicked the light back and forth across one eye then the other. "It stands for Bobby Joe, okay."

"If you say so," Charlie shot back playfully, and then said in a professional tone, "B.P. is normal." He removed the blood pressure cuff.

These guys were charmers and I knew what they were doing. It wasn't working on me. I was still keyed and stressed and scared, but Sam had seemed to relax, sinking back against the wall, dropping his hunched shoulders and looking a bit sleepy.

"Just going to eavesdrop on your heart here for a second, Sam," Charlie said slipping the stethoscope under Sam's shirt collar listening intently. "Heart rate - 60 ….strong and steady."

"Right pupil's sluggish, left is dilated." Bobby Joe, BJ offered, done with the eye exam. "Sam, where does it hurt the most?" BJ asked feeling around Sam's chest and neck area.

"It's fine…I'm fine," Sam muttered weakly.

"Sammy," I warned.

"Head hurts some," Sam fessed up, licking his lips. "Little h-hard to breathe I'm wedged in here g-good."

"You have a few broken ribs and more than likely a concussion," B.J. stated, explaining Sam's current discomfort.

I nodded. Already knowing all that and thinking maybe…maybe this wouldn't turn out so bad. Concussions and broken bones we could deal with. Now all we needed to do was get him out from under this beam before we all went _Boom!_

"What about your back or abdomen?" BJ examined the crossbeam that lay across Sam's lap keeping him anchored to the floor.

"They don't hurt," Sam answered, not flinching as BJ pressed about on his belly.

"How long has he been trapped like this?" Charlie asked, rubbing the top of his bald head as if he were waxing a car.

"Maybe forty minutes," I said.

B.J. looked down to where Sam's legs were hidden beneath the debris. "You feel your legs?"

Sam concentrated hard, and then took in a harsh, little breath, fingers crumpling the birthday card again.

"Sammy?" I huddled over him. "Can you?"

Sam shook his head no. "Dean, I can't."

"Okay, that's enough." I leapt up to my feet again, posing the beam.

"Look, Dean, just hold your horses and let me explain," Charlie said strongly.

"After we get him the hell out of here!"

"Easy, Dean." Sam's fingers brushed across my hand – cold and trembling. "They can't," he said, his voice feint, and scratchy. "They can't, okay?"

"What do you mean they can't?" I snapped. "Three full-grown men can lift this oversized toothpick off of you."

Sam whispered, "Crush syndrome."

"What'd you say?" Sam's words not quit registering with me.

"Suddenly released pressure," Charlie simplified, scrubbing at his bald head again - an obvious tic. "It can send him into shock… and there's no way of knowing if he has any internal injuries. When we remove the weight…the pressure release of that beam could send him into…"

"...cardiac arrest," Sam finished for him.

"What? No you won't!" I spat at Sam.

"Dean, just don't get in their way," Sam said in a low tone.

My whole body tightened as a hammer slammed down on that black pit in my stomach splattering it flat.

"We could get lucky," BJ jumped in trying to save the day. "Emerge from this incident with only the injuries we've seen so far," he said, his optimism not boosting mine. "Here," he said, handing over a large piece of antiseptic gaze. "Make yourself useful and take care of some of those smaller cuts on his arms."

"You're kidding me, right?" I grossed completely offended at being put on Candy Striper detail. "I could do brain surgery on Sam if I had to," I pouted.

"That's a little cocky of him isn't it?" Charlie directed to Sam.

Sam gave a light chuckle. "Cocky would be Dean's middle name."

"Hey, I retorted. "My middle name is awesome."

"Yeah," Sam rolled his eyes at me. "That too," he half laughed-half coughed.

Sam was possibly bleeding internally. Blood backing up and waiting to spill out the second the pressure was relieved? And there Sam sat all stoic and Yoda- mellow, trying to comfort me with geeky humor. Taking care of Sam wasn't just my job it was my life. From the second those olive-sized hazel eyes stared up into mine from inside a cocoon-wrapped white blanket. Sammy was mine to protect. Giving that job up to these guys was killing me.

I took in as deep of a breath as I could and hissed, "So, what's the plan?" I questioned as I started to do the only thing I apparently could do - tend to Sam's minor cuts and scrapes.

Charlie said softly, "We stabilize your left arm and your neck, Sam. Clean up that cut on your head more and put on a pressure bandage so it does not start bleeding again. Hook you up to an Intravenous fluid containing sodium bicarbonate to keep your blood pressure up, and monitor your heart rate at all times. When the Hazmat guys get here and give us the okay, we'll be fully prepared for anything when we go lifting this hunk of wood off. Understand?"

"Yes, we understand, right, Dean?" Sam winced when I ran the gauze pad over a small cut on his cheek.

Before I could answer we were interrupted by the Hazmat crew in white suits and hood masks, dragging in a long hose.

"Speaking of the Ghostbusters," Charlie chimed in.

"Well, there's something you don't see every day." I did my best Murray impersonation, watching the Hazmat guys as they started to spray white foam that could pass as the Stay-Puft Marshmallow man...after he'd been turned into meringue.

"Love that flick," Charlie chuckled.

Sam made a petulant sound, dropping his head back. "Don't get Dean started," he said in annoyance. "He can quote that entire movie verbatim."

"Him too," BJ said rolling his eyes at Charlie.

Second- to-second seemed more like hour-to hour. All I could do now was try to keep Sam grounded and calm - or more likely myself - and wait as the Hazmat guys did their job, Charlie and I trading off lines from the movie to keep all our nerves from fraying.

TBC…


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean was an immovable force, and I was getting angry at all the fussing over me. There were other people to consider.

Good news was things had gotten loud and busy real fast. And at least it had stopped Dean and Charlie from driving BJ and I crazy with their Ghostbusters reenactment.

Dean made sure to stay in-my-face-close. His eyes roaming about like a cornered animal. From BJ to Charlie to the other EMT's removing the body of the old man, to the Hazmat team still spraying white foam all around the truck, to the fire fighters digging through the debris looking for anyone else who might be trapped, and then back to me.

Dean wasn't scared of much. But right now I could tell he was totally freaked.

I was now fitted with a neck collar, my broken arm secured to my side, IV, blood pressure cuff, and heart monitor in place.

BJ and Charlie had done all they could and now we all just sat and waited for the fire crew to clear a straight, unobstructed path out to the waiting ambulance. If I did crash…they'd need to get me out of here fast.

Quite frankly I was feeling pretty good considering the broken bones and concussion. I might just skate through without much more wear and tear after all.

"We're almost ready to move," BJ announced.

Dean went ramrod straight, and I swore his face was as white as that foam.

Sensing he was about to explode, I quickly handed him his birthday card. "It'll be okay, Dean. Just…can you hold on to this?"

Without a word, he grabbed the card.

"Sam can you feel your legs at all yet?" Charlie asked.

I frowned, glancing down the length of my body. I hadn't even noticed, but somewhere between the Stay Puft Man death scene and rolling credits someone had dug the debris out from around my legs and I could see them both now.

Dean tucked up closer to me. "Sammy?"

I concentrated hard.

"Yeah," I breathed out. "Think so." I wiggled my right foot, then my left. "Feels kind of tingly."

"That's not normal," Dean hissed. "Is that normal?" he barked.

"I'd say that's normal," Charlie cooed. "Neither of your legs appears to be broken and we don't see any large lacerations…it's looking really good, Sammy…Sam."

Dean hefted out a sigh.

"See." I smiled at him. "It's going to be okay."

"Better be, bitch."

"Shut up, jerk."

"Okay you two, that's enough," BJ said in a strong bad-cop sort of tone. "Sam, they've cleared a path and the fuel leak is secure. These good fellows here…" he waved a hand over at two muscular firemen that just stepped up on either side of me. "They're going to jack up the beam and Charlie and I are going to ease you out, roll you onto a backboard and load you onto this stretcher." He pointed behind him to a litter with buckles and lined with white blankets.

"Sam," Charlie stepped in, his voice soft, obviously the good cop. "I don't want you to move at all. BJ and I get paid to do all the work here. And if you feel any pain or anything strange…dizzy…nauseous…even the tiniest of pinpricks I want to hear about it! You'll do that right?"

I tried to give a nod, but the neck brace kept me from doing so as I watched the two firemen get to work wedging their jacks on either end of the beam.

"Don't try to be a hero, kid," BJ warned huddling over me, to check my IV blocking and my view of the beam.

"We know the type," Charlie also leaned in. "And you're the type times one hundred am I correct in that assumption?" He looked at Dean for confirmation.

"That'd be a big ten-four," Dean snapped.

"And I know your type too, Mr. Eye of the Tiger," BJ squawked, pointing a stern finger Dean's way.

Dean's mouth opened to say something, but BJ quickly cut him off at the pass. "You let us handle Sam."

Charlie glanced over his shoulder than back. "I know he's your kid brother, and you're used to calling the shots and fixing up his scrapped knees, but we got this one. You understand, Dean?"

"Yes, but –"

"You want to come along for the ride, you will trust us," BJ ground the straightforward demand out. "You sit back and watch and let us do our job. The end."

BJ turned and was talking in low whispers to the two firemen with Jacks, while Dean and Charlie exchanged a few words.

I wasn't really hearing what they were saying. All the chattering was making my head spin. Strike that, actually the whole room started to spin and I needed to vomit. My body felt so weak and heavy and my throat dry as sand. I swallowed desperate for some moisture but there was none.

"Okay. Here we go, Sam. We're going to move. Deep breath," BJ commanded. "You might start to feel a lot of discomfort with that broken arm and those ribs."

I did as I was told, and let them do the work. My gaze roaming from face-to face – all of my rescuers were wearing scowls and staring at me like I was a prized catch.

The beam had been raised just enough so I had some wiggle room. My claustrophobia was really kicking in, but I resisted the urge to bolt as they worked me out and onto the backboard.

A cold shiver went through me and I shuddered.

"Sam?" Dean looked at me, anxiously watching my every breath and snagging the space blanket around me tighter.

"Dean, stop it." I shifted to get comfortable. "I'm doing fine."

"Yeah," Dean huffed, backing off. "Because everyone run over by a tanker truck carrying jet fuel and half a restaurant dumped on their ass is always sitting on the corner of happy and healthy."

I rolled my eyes_. Big mistake._

Everything turned kind of hazy, and a dull ache in my stomach sent those tiny pinpricks Charlie was talking about danced in to obscure everyone around me.

"What's?" I blinked several times and the room righted itself, the pinpricks chased away.

"Hey." Dean put his hands gently on either side of my head causing me to look up at him. "Sammy? What's going on?" His expression was serious as he ran his eyes over me.

I cleared my throat and tried to breathe normally as I said, "Don't worry, Dean. I'm tough remember."

"You just look tough because you're the size of a Sasquatch," he said, giving me a sly wink, unconsciously licking his lips – something he does when he's nervous or scared.

"So far so good," BJ said, catching my eye.

The two EMT's finished buckling me into the stretcher. Charlie was at my feet, BJ at my head, Dean at my side still gripping the sides of my head.

"We lift on two," Charlie commanded.

BJ counted off. "One and two and –" They both lifted me slowly and gently up off the ground, the simple movement causing me to lose my bearings.

Suddenly a hundred bees buzzed in my ear and I closed my eyes. My chest felt trampled and I huffed and puffed for breath.

"Fight those eyes open, Sammy."

I didn't open my eyes, aware of Dean running his fingers through my hair.

"Damn it, Sammy, fight."

I just wanted to pass out, but instead tilted my head slightly back and forced my eyes to flutter open.

"How you doing, pal?" Dean bent down to peer into my eyes.

I started shaking all over - hard. "C-cold," I muttered weakly, not taking my gaze off of Dean.

Dean shot an intense look of fear over to BJ.

"What?" I quaked.

"Delayed shock," BJ stated calmly, tucking the space blanket further around me. "You've been amazingly lucid so far, Sam. Need you to stay with it," he said firmly as they carried me through the maze of what once was the restaurant.

"How far is the hospital from here?" Dean asked as we twisted around a pile of busted chairs and tables not breaking stride.

"Far enough," Charlie answered, maneuvering us around another mound of debris.

Dean seemed to turn green.

"Uh," I bit back a moan, squirming, the dull ache turning up the volume, the nausea hot and rising.

Dean's hand came to hold my quivering chin. "Are you going to be sick?"

"No," I said hoarsely. Desperate to stay conscious, and not freak Dean out more, I asked, "Why? Are you?"

"Let's hope not," Dean groused. "Just hang in there."

Everything titled at an odd angle. Felt like I'd just been dumped out of an air plane without a parachute and I was hurtling toward the ground ten thousand feet below

"Dude?" Dean was in my face, nose- to- nose glaring icicles. "Talk to me, man."

"Nothing," I pushed out a breath of air.

"Sam, tell us," Charlie commanded.

"Something's wrong." I let my bravado fall away, grimacing at the sharp twinge in my gut.

"Blood pressure just dropped." BJ barked.

The twinge quickly turned into a wrecking ball, and I struggled against the straps of the litter needing to sit up, my breath sucked away.

"D'n," I barely could whisper, desperately trying to keep my eyes locked on his.

"Don't." Dean put a frantic hand to my chest, keeping me down.

"Pulse weak and rapid," BJ barked again.

"Damn it, Sammy."

"He's slipping," Charlie muttered.

Everything was unraveling too fast, the pain explosive and jabbing and stealing my breath away.

"Gah," I choked.

"Come on, man." Dean rubbed back and forth gently across my chest. "Hold on."

"Dean, tilt his head back. Maintain a clear breathing passage," Charlie instructed as we continued on through the restaurant.

I found myself staring up at the ceiling, everything doing a slow churn and looking like sticky taffy.

Just as we burst out into the bright sunlight, I cried out in pain as a knife halved my stomach.

Dean and I were loaded into the waiting ambulance – a packaged deal – Dean never letting of the hold he had on my hand.

"Move this hunk of junk," Dean shouted at the driver.

My pounding heart and squeaking breath took over, but I kept my eyes glued on Dean. He was stone quiet and looked scared to death, but he wormed in close and took my right hand and squeezed – iron clad.

Charlie was suddenly above my head. "How you doing, Sam?"

"I…just think –" My body went rigid.

"Easy, this will help." Charlie slipped one hand under my neck an before I knew it an oxygen mask covered my mouth and nose.

I gulped at the sweet, cool air.

"That's it, Sam, breathe in deep as you can," Charlie said smoothly.

I breathed in, the tickle of air causing me to gag.

"Dean," BJ tried to work his way around in the small confines, "Let go of Sam's hand. I need to get in here."

A shuddering icy chill flew down my spine making my legs kick outward and my teeth started chattering.

"Sammy?" Dean screeched.

I wanted to call out to my brother. To erase the intense look of fear from Dean's green face, but it was taking everything in me to not pass out.

I gave a valiant effort struggling to talk from under the damn mask and raising myself up a few inches. I held Dean's gaze through the bolts of pain, every bump in the road spiking through me.

I needed to tell him so much. I took in two extra-long breaths. That seemed to clear my fuzzy head. But when I opened my mouth to speak all I could do was hiccup on Dean's name.

Another jolt of pain in my stomach knocked me flat, and I seemed to melt away like ice cream into pitch blackness.

TBC…


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Sam struggled upward. His eyes blown wide face pale and sweaty and pulled into a grimace of concentration. We took in extra-long identical breaths, but while I held mine in my chest, Sam made a strangled sound puffing his out.

"Dean, let go of Sam's hand, man. I need to get in here," Charlie scooted in around me.

I knew I was in the way but I couldn't let go. I swallowed hard, watching Sammy hiccup for air, willing my life into my brother by the squeeze of my hand alone. It seemed to work at first until his eyes crossed and rolled to the back of his head and he flopped down to the gurney.

"Pulse is fading," BJ stared at the small heart monitor built into the ambulance wall. The jagged lines bleeping sluggishly.

I went ramrod straight. "But he's still breathing," I said not sure if I was asking a question or stating a fact.

"Technically, but not enough to keep a sparrow alive," Charlie announced.

"That merits bagging him," BJ directed.

Charlie did just that, attaching a bag to the mask and compressing it to force air into Sammy's lungs. "Breathing is assisted," he said sounding more like he was changing an oil filter than helping to keep someone alive.

I sat stiff and unmoving, watching the mechanical up and down motion of Sam's chest and trying to breathe along with each squeeze Charlie gave of the bag.

BJ was on the radio with the hospital. "Stats are dropping, we're bagging him right now, but he's heading toward intubation fast, he's diaphoretic, cold and clammy. Heart rates shot up to 140."

"And he just started throwing PVC's," Charlie added, but this time his professional voice cracked and he ran a hand over his bald head.

"What? What the hell is that? What's happening to my brother?" I barked.

"He's heart's skipping beats, Dean." BJ explained, peering up at Charlie.

Charlie shook his head sadly, continuing to give the ambu bag short, fast squeezes.

I wanted to shove them both out of the way, grab Sammy by the shoulders and shake the friggin' crap out of him until he was compelled to snap out of whatever slop he was sliding down. But all I could do was sit there – frozen and helpless.

What happened next was horrible and I could barely watch, but didn't twist away. Afraid if I looked away Sam would somehow sense it and I'd lose him for good.

"He's spiraling," Charlie gruffly said. "And damn fast…we got full respiratory failure." Removing the ambu bag, he titled Sam's head as far back as the neck brace would allow and tugged on his chin to open his mouth.

BJ scrambled to whip out a plastic tube and handed it over to Charlie who efficiently threaded it down Sam's throat. The whoosh – whoosh- click-click of Sam being automatically force-fed oxygen drowned out the blaring screech of the sudden alarm.

"Crap! Kid just nosedived into a flat line"

I stared at the straight, thread-thin line streaming across the monitor that Sam was hooked up to.

Starting another line," Charlie called putting another IV in Sam's broken left arm, while BJ started chest compressions.

BJ stopped compressions to manually check Sam, placing two fingers along the side of his neck. "Carotid pulse still absent," he muttered, resuming chest compressions.

The weight and vigor BJ was putting behind each compression rocked Sam's body back and forth emulating life. Sadly, I knew better.

"Hitting him with three hundred milligrams of Amiodarone," Charlie said flicking a syringe. "First class drugs here, Sam." He plunged the needle into the new IV line.

They waited a few seconds, watching the damn screen. "Not viable," Charlie grouched angrily.

After another round of vigorous chest compressions, BJ excitedly called out, "We're good. We've got V-Tach."

Charlie nabbed the defibrillator excitedly. "Charging to 300." He waited for the machine to juice up. "Here we go." He applied the paddles to Sam's chest. "Clear." The shock discharged like a gorilla-punch to my brother's chest and he arched up off the gurney then flopped back, his head rocking slightly off to one side.

"No heart," BJ said so quietly I hardly heard him over the sirens as he added yet more drugs to Sam's IV.

Charlie ever so gently repositioned Sam's head so it was straight and took over compressions.

Sam was soaked in sweat and ghostly white, except for the blue- that had started to spread outward from his lips.

I let out a sob.

"Don't underestimate him, Dean," Charlie called to me. "Kid's not ready for the big dirt nap."

I bit into my lip. I wasn't ready to burn his remains either.

"Atropine's all in. Go again," BJ ordered gruffly.

Without a word this time, Charlie snatched the paddles and positioned them to either side of Sam's chest pressing down with added gusto.

Sam's body jumped hard in response to the electricity applied, but then fell completely lifeless.

"No go. Still V-tach," BJ hissed.

I couldn't stand looking at my pulseless, breathless brother another second. I had to do something. "Damn it, Sammy!" I sat forward wiggling in close. "Sam!" I grasped my little brother's lax, clammy-cold hand squeezing the crap out of it. "You are not doing this, dude!"

"Hey, hey, hey!" BJ was in my face. "Trust. Remember?"

I bit into my lower lip until it bled, releasing Sam's grip and sat as far back as I could get in the confines of the ambulance.

"You're staying alive, Sam," BJ yelled, going back to work. "Or you're big brother's going to kick your ass…ours too!" His quite was thrown to the wind, pushing in yet another round of drugs. "One milligram epinephrine pushed…go again, Charlie."

Charlie positioned one of the paddles under Sam's right clavicle, the other along his side over his left lower ribs sandwiching him in.

I caught Charlie's eye and we both winced, knowing he was going to do more damage to Sam's already broken ribs.

He zapped Sam anyway. Broken ribs could heal. A heart that wasn't beating…

Sam's body, once again lifted up off the gurney and hovered there a second before coming back down with a heavy thump.

"We have a heartbeat," BJ sung out just as the ambulance rolled up to the ER doors.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

I leapt out of the ambulance after my brother. My feet had barely hit the blacktop and Sam was already being whisked through the automatic glass doors heading down a long, brightly lit white-titled hallway.

I ran after the gurney that was carrying my limp brother. I couldn't see him. He was surrounded by a dizzying white-blur of doctors and nurses –all speaking what sounded like a foreign language - hospital jargon.

The sting of alcohol and Pine Sol hit my nose and the bright fluorescent lighting shining down hot from the ceiling above sent blinding pain pounding through my head. But that wasn't what had caused the tears to come as raced around a corner and skidded to a squeaking halt.

Sweaty and breathless, I panicked to see four other hallways, all branching off in a labyrinth of direction with no Sam to be seen down any of them.

Rubber soled shoes squeaking across clean shiny tile behind me had me whirling around.

A nurse in blue surgery scrubs was headed my way in a hurry.

I held up a hand trying to slow her roll. "I'm looking for my brother," I said urgently and completely winded. "He was just brought in. His name's Sam, he was a victim of the restaurant -"

"They're trying to save him," she softly said, no-holds-barred as she raced by. "Wait there." She pointed to a small alcove full of plastic blue chairs with no arm rests all lined up in a straight row. "I'll send somebody from admissions over and then the doctor will be out as soon as he knows something." She called over her shoulder, disappearing into the labyrinth.

I couldn't breathe through my nose, huffing and puffing out my mouth and trying not to feint.

"Sammy." I stared at the all too familiar waiting room, a bland and torturous place. A horrible place where eon-long seconds stretched into eon-long minutes, and eon- long minutes crawled into forever hours, and forever hours turned a big brother's patience into a unpredictable, unfocused, feet pacing, finger tapping, head-banging rage of worry. "Damn it." I had no choice. Picking a chair in the middle of the row, I sat down staring at the magazines spread out over a long, low table. "I can't lose you." One lone tear dripped to my lap. "You hear me?" I growled looking to the clock up on the wall – the only thing taking up any room on the big, blank white space.

Yet, I'd take this room over seeing Sam pinned down in that restaurant.

There wasn't anything to do in here but listen to the ticking of time. Watch more families filter in and take up seats, huddled together in their own private hells.

I stared at the neatly arranged blend of magazines. They were there for people to read. There to drown out the sounds of your own mind rambling on and on. Nobody gave a rats ass about the magazines. Everyone desperately rethinking all of the choices, all of the have, would have, could have, what ifs. Allowing the fear and dread and the long, long, long hours of nothingness drag on. While Sammy's blood flowed out of veins and filled his insides up with red.

"Son of a bitch." I stood. "Damn it, Sammy." I sat back down staring up at the clock. "Friggin' awesome." It'd only been ten minutes and already felt like a year.

I didn't have many options.

Option A: Run up and down the hallways screaming like a nutcase for my brother whose medical needs were beyond my skill level?

Or option B: Do as requested. Relinquish Sam to the hands of strangers, sit my ass in this unbendable plastic chair and watched time tick by.

_And tick by._

_And tick by._

_And tick by._

_/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

I didn't even know how long it'd been now, the numbers on the clock all blurring together. Families came and families went. Some crying hysterically from bad news, others laughing with relief from good. Not all of them had been from the restaurant accident. Life liked to through punches and she spread herself around.

I'd paced a path on the tiled floor. Everyone had gone. I was the lone wolf. Me and that fucking clock on the wall squaring off.

"Jesus, Sammy." I ran a hand through my hair and finally resigned to keeping my ass glued to that chair, readjusting my position more times than I cared to count. Feet flat on the floor, back ramrod straight, hunched forward, elbows on knees, legs crossed, uncrossed, crossed again, feet on the table, back to the floor, tilt left, tilt right, head banging the wall behind me, all the while keeping my gaze on that damn ticking clock.

Time was running out. When time runs, where does it run to? Time is a strange creature. It flies when you're having fun and it runs slow when you're brother is in surgery his life in the balance.

Time was forever, and I so wanted to kill it.

Turn the hands back and never stop at that restaurant/motel.

Never leave Sam there alone to go take care of my Baby.

Sit on his ass and never let him go to Stanford.

Hell, I should have taken baby Sammy swaddled in my arms and ran from the house fire. Ran from dad.

"Holy crap, Dean, you must have banged your head against that wall one too many times." I blinked at the clock swearing it knew I was going crazy as it slowed even further.

I dropped my head back against the wall again and closed my eyes. Wasn't sure how long I stayed that way when a palm on my shoulder jerked me awake.

"Whoa! Just us, tiger."

I stared up at BJ and Charlie, feeling nauseous and dizzy and nauseous.

"We're heading back out there again," Charlie said gruffly, looking like a solider coming home from battle. "Just wanted to stop by and check on you and your...Sam." He nervously polished his bald head.

"S-sammy…he's still in surgery." I started to rise up to my feet, but BJ – whose hand was the one clamped to my shoulder – pressed me back down.

"Kid's no marshmallow, Dean," BJ said, his voice soft and gentle. "He'll pull through for you."

Just then a tall silver-haired man showed up. "Dean Winchester?"

"Here! Right here!" I popped up out of the chair, stiff and crooked.

BJ and Charlie gave me a curt nod and bowed out as the doctor came over and sat in the chair next to mine.

"I'm Doctor Roberts. How about we sit," he waved a hand at the chair I'd just leapt out of.

"If it's okay, Doc, I rather stand," I said while backing up until I hit the wall, the clock above tick-tocking away.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather just sit?"

I protested silently, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Straight from the hip then," Doctor such-in-such said going right into his luckily and unluckily spiel.

Each one of his words felt like ice-cold, pelting drops of rain that pierced my skin and shot straight through my heart ripping out my back and leaving behind a huge black hole. Yet the words continued to whirl and circle around my head. Word's like ruptured spleen, compromised oxygen levels, sever blood loss, two broken ribs, two fractured, a concussion, broken left arm. It was very touch and go, but we managed to pull him through the surgery.

Suddenly standing seemed like much too much of an effort and I stumbled over to the chair and sat next to the doc.

"I know it's hard, but we have to wait on Sam. The next forty-eight hours will tell us more."

"So what you're saying, Doctor –"I let the sentence hang.

"Doctor Roberts," he reminded. "I'm saying at this point it's too close to call, but your brother's a fierce fighter, Dean."

"Yeah he is," I said with pride. "Super tough. He can kick anything's ass."

"Then he will kick this. Just be confident and patient." The doctor said, letting go of my shoulder and walking out.

"Confidents I'm full of." I sat back down in the plastic chair. "But patience, man…I have no patience for patience," I sighed, the next forty-eight hours were going to be hell.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thirty-nine years later I found myself sitting in another hard-assed chair next to my busted up brother, looking at yet another friggin' clock.

Okay, so it wasn't Thirty-nine years it was only thirty-nine hours, but it felt like years.

The only sound that filled the room was our breathing, me normally, Sammy mechanically.

I hadn't slept, hadn't left Sam's side for more than a trip to the bathroom. The plastic chair I was sitting in was killer and I'd stolen a pillow from the empty bed next to us and shoved it behind my back.

It didn't help.

I'd tried to call Dad for the thousandth time, couldn't even get through to him. Damn cell phone didn't even go to voicemail. Bobby's phone had done the same damn thing. I flipped the cell shut, staring at it a moment, thinking I might go flush the piece of crap down the toilet.

"How about a phone that makes phone calls." I washed a hand down over my face, shoving the cell into a pocket, and looking back at Sam's lax face. "Some days you're the dog, some days you're the hydrant, huh, Sammy?"

Sam remained still, trapped among a rigging of a different kind…wires and tubes and bags and machines.

"Brother, you know I'd give you my heart and very breath if I could."

I reached out to hold his hand, but stopped myself instead letting my hand rest on the bed near his, unable to stand the feel of the cold, clammy, skin.

_Pray. Maybe I should pray._

I didn't know how, but I'd give anything a try right now.

"Damn you. How could you let this happen to him?" I raised my eyes, looking past the ceiling tiles to some other entity that may or may not be listening. "Of all the sick sons of bitches in this world…what kind of God…" I swallowed hard knowing this was not the kind of prayer I should be praying. I hung my head in shame. "I don't understand you," I cringed at the despair I heard in my own voice. "I can't do this. I'm sorry. I can't lose him."

My eyes roamed back to Sam. So still, so vulnerable, so weak and damaged. I was losing my mind waiting for Sam to wake up. I just needed to see him open his eyes. I leaned against the rail of the bed and squeezed my eyes shut my prayer somehow turning into begging.

"Please. Please."

"You want me on my knees?" I whispered. "Okay." I started to do just that when I felt something cold and trembling brush across my fingers.

"Sammy?" My eyes flew open and I leaned in close seeing the slightest twitch around Sam's eyes.

"I'm here. Right here, dude. Give me a sign you hear me, Sam." I lifted his limp, frigid hand off the bed and squeezed tightly.

My little brother squeezed back and I gloated with pride. "That's my boy. Now look at me."

Sam turned his head ever so slowly opened his eyes homing in on me.

"Sammy," I glanced at the stupid wall clock. "Forty-eight hours my ass. Dude, you did it. Broke some sort of record or something."

Sam looked at me questioningly, twisting his mouth around the breathing tube.

His forehead creased and he ran his eyes slowly around the room.

"Hospital, Sam."

Sam gave me a dirty look.

"I know. Sorry. You're going to be okay," I said trying to keep it as simple as possible. "Need you just to rest and stay calm," I continued on. "Let the machine do the breathing for you right now."

I wanted to kick my own ass for saying anything, because Sam suddenly seemed to notice the tube and he panicked. Making a sucking noise, clamping down on the breathing tube.

"Sam don't, man. Don't fight it." I caressed the side of his face.

Ignoring me, Sam bucked up off the bed, gagging.

An alarm sounded and that seemed to scare and disorient Sam even more.

"Hey, hey, hey." I seized the pillow out from behind my back and kicked the chair away to stand. "Easy. Easy, Sam." I clutched the pillow to his chest, leaning over the rail and trying not to hurt him as I kept him restrained.

A team of nurses and doctor came racing in.

"What? What? "I screamed as I was roughly shoved aside.

No one answered, and Sammy…he just kept right on thrashing, making worrisome if not disgusting noises.

I tried to stay calm, but when my brother's hand lashed outward striking the lowered metal bar and latching on…I lost it.

"Damn it!" I bellowed. "Someone tell me what's happening!" Both my hands flying up to grip at my hair verses someone's throat.

TBC…


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

One minute Dean was there telling me everything was going to be okay. The next minute I was twisting and turning through a deep dark rabbit hole. The pain was everywhere and it felt like a baseball bat had been shoved down my throat, and all I wanted to do was throw up. I tried to swallow down the bile, tried to breath, but only ended up gagging.

I went for broke, reaching up toward my mouth with the intention of pulling out whatever was stuck there, but strong fingers curled around my hand effectively stopping me.

I wanted to argue, but couldn't say a word.

My throat began to involuntarily spasm and a muffled buzzing that sounded like a dozen hair clippers were divebombing all around my ears. The only thing that came to mind was Dean saying something about cutting my whacky hair. It scared the crap out of me and I knocked myself out to sit up, to escape the shears, to open my eyes, to do something, anything. But I couldn't.

A familiar, yet shaky hand came to rest on my shoulder just before I tipped backward and fell into a huge black hole, the buzzing clippers following me in. I didn't know how long I was falling, but somewhere along the way I latched onto a memory. A big, sliver truck crashing through a glass window. I couldn't piece much more together, and no one was around to tell me anything.

Only disembodied voices floated around shadowy and dark and creepy. Where was I? What was happening to me?

I wanted to wake up, but I couldn't open my eyes. Couldn't move. Couldn't talk. I could hear more far away noises. I could hear people talking, but didn't quite know what they were saying. One of those people I knew to be my brother. His voice sounded scared. I wanted to tell him I was okay. I was alive, but stayed in my half-asleep state no matter what I tried.

The buzzing clippers seemed to fade and a male voice broke through the shadows.

"He's coming back around. Sam, calm down and push out a big breath for us."

_What? What the hell did this person want from me?_ I didn't know. But they weren't getting it as I bucked and fought.

"Talk to him. Keep him calm, Dean," A female voice cooed.

I lashed out a hand expecting to feel the warmth of my brothers, but instead my fingers wrapped around a cold, steel bar. Flashes of light zapped behind my closed eyes and my legs twitched in pain.

"Kid's a great fighter," someone said with aw. "That attitudes what saved him."

"Sammy. Hey." A hand slipped around my fingers and pried them away from the steel bar."Easy now."

"Okay, people. After the ventilator is off, either his lungs will be strong enough to breathe on their own, or they'll fail and we'll need to reintabate."

_That didn't' sound good._

I tried to say as much, but choked my body involuntarily arching, ridged and struggling.

"Come on, princess, chill out for me."

I tried to lash out with my other hand, but it didn't seem to be there. It freaked me out. And then I was falling, falling through blurry whiteness. My arms tingled and my throat burned.

"Come on, Dude. I'm serious. Just corporate here."

I coughed and pushed involuntarily, and something slipped out of my mouth all wet and slimy and I gagged.

"Breathe deep. Breathe slow," that someone said again. "Give him a few minutes."

Everything had gone suddenly quiet and all my energy left, and I felt like dirty laundry hung out to dry – wrinkled and frayed and insanely unfresh.

"Sammy, breathe, little brother."

I took in small whistling breaths.

"He isn't fully with us yet, but he is responding. O2 states are low but doable." Came the voice from somewhere out there.

I opened my mouth to talk, but instead whimpered my throat clogging up, utterly turned around and confused. I kicked at the disembodied voice, and somehow managed to bolt upright but was restrained by a group of hands holding me down like something out of a really bad nightmare.

"Sammy!"

I let out a small gasp, and for a second just barely opened my eyes, catching my breath when I saw a crowd of strangers.

I choked.

"Shhh. All right, man."

My eyes darted about until they locked onto a set o green ones.

_Dean._

"Right here, Dude."

I could only cough a response, a funny dead-fish taste filling my mouth and I wrinkled my nose.

"Yeah, I know." Dean gave a nervous chuckle. "I'll get you a giant Mentos when you can breathe without whistling out your nose."

"Nice deep breaths, son." A silver-haired man came into view.

"Do what the doctor says, Sammy. Slow and easy. Breathe."

I kept my eyes on Dean, taking in shallow breaths and it hurt and the room spun.

"Not that slow, man, come on," Dean hissed.

_What's happening? _I whimpered when the words in my head didn't make it out my mouth.

"It's really very important not to talk right now," the doctor said softly, placing an oxygen mask on my face.

I felt awful and completely baffled. Every bone, muscle, and ligament hurt with every breath.

"What's that? He's not good?" Dean carded a hand through my hair, but his eyes were on the doctor.

"We have nice air exchange, but we're not out of the jungle, here yet, Dean. We're going to keep him on 100 percent oxygen for now. He's still very weak and running a high fever from that infection. But his vitals are looking better. Your brother is one outstanding patient. We're still looking at a long recovery, but damn if he's not one strong kid."

"How long is long?" Dean asked.

"Two more weeks in hospital at least...and probably three more weeks out with a lot of T.L.C."

"Nuhh," I crocked like a bullfrog, pitching my fit from under the hard plastic mask strapped to my face.

"Here for the duration, pal." Dean took hold of my hand before I could take the mask off and squeezed firmly.

I was exhausted and still very confused as my eyes slipped shut, listening to Dean chanting breathe, just breathe, over and over.

Damn he always was bossy.

TBC…


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It'd been three days since Sam's tube was taken out. Three days of nothing but boring TV and bland food, low whispers and cold washcloths for the supposed 'normal' postoperative fever he'd developed. Though it wasn't a high grade – 101.3 at most – it added to his discomfort, and kept my concern flared.

Sam could still barely open his eyes. Partly because he just needed to sleep, partly because the medical staff kept him numb and pain free with some heavy painkillers. I'd have to wake him up most the time and coax him to stay with it long enough for me to get some melted ice chips down his throat, and later some broth.

Sam, ever trusting, never let out a peep while I pulled him gently up into a sitting position, shifting him about the pile of plump pillows to ease the pressure on his healing ribs. Yet, I still felt guilty, knowing he was in pain. I could always tell when the drugs were wearing off by the glazed, watery look in his eyes.

While he slept, I'd spend a lot of time with a pair of precision tweezers picking tiny crystal-shards of glass out of his hair, and skin. This was one of those times, though I was pretty sure we were finally seeing the end of the glass.

"Dean," Sam muttered, his right hand clutching at the blanket.

"Easy, buddy." I set the tweezers down and sat forward getting into Sam's face excited to see his eyes open after an extra long time of him being out.

Sam frowned and his whole body started to tremble and his eyes slipped right back shut.

Sammy?" I rubbed at his upper arm. "You don't start staying awake for more than twenty minutes at a time…I'm going to start taking it personally, man."

Sam's head lolled toward me. "Stop rushing me," he mumbled lethargically, drifting back off.

"Sam, the natives are getting restless here." I jostled him lightly. "Big clue, brother, I'm the only native in the room. Not going to let you go down under just yet."

Sam's eyes remained closed.

"You stick around long enough and I'll smuggle you in a beer later," I bribed, selfishly wanting to keep his company in my presence a bit longer, and besides I needed him to drink some water. He hadn't had any in the eight hours he'd been sleeping.

"You miss me?" He gave a sleepy smile, but still didn't open his eyes.

I moved my hand up to his overgrown hair and gave a little tug. "Come on, man, eyes open."

"You miss me," Sam slurred drunkenly.

I bent down low, so close to Sam's face I could feel his breaths brush across my cheeks. "Sam, focus….look at me."

Sam blinked open his eyes. "What?"

I could tell his mind was still empty and he wasn't seeing me fully. "Just need you to take in some water, dude," I said reaching for the small bottle on the bedside table.

Sam squinted up at me, looking a bit dumbfounded.

"Don't worry, Genius, I'll show you how it's done." I found the bed controls and raised his head up higher. "If you can take in the hole bottle this time I'll let you stay up and watch the Biography on Weird Al Yankovic that's on at noon."

"Again?" Sam drew in a shaky breath.

"Don't let me down here," I said the words carefully so Sam would understand, pushing the bottle into his hand and didn't let go until I was sure he had it anchored.

Ever so slowly that faraway look disappeared with each sip of water Sam took.

While he drank, his eyes crinkled at the edges the way they always did when he was thinking really hard about something.

"What?"

Sam's fingers folded around the bottle tighter. "Tastes like Drano."

"You going to be sick?"

Sam shook his head, no, but kept his lips pursed, breathing slowly out his nose with a slight whistle as he drank. At least the stupid muffled, wet sounding oxygen mask was gone now.

"Sam?

He'd gotten half the bottle down, but still looked dazed and I wasn't sure if, or what, he comprehended. They really had him loaded up on the good stuff. He was so damn fragile. I'd seen spider webs that were stronger, so I wasn't taken off guard when Sam's fingers uncurled, and the bottle slipped from his hand.

"Hey," I quickly caught the bottle midair, only spilling a small amount. "You're going to get me in trouble with the nurses again, man." I set the bottle on the bedside table.

Sam's eyes went big and wet and puppyish.

"Shit. You're going to be sick." I shoved off the chair and clattered about the room until I found the stupid basin thingy.

Seconds later, I found him trying to rise up with both his good and casted arm, eyes watering and unfocused.

"Here, here." I cupped the back of his neck with one hand to hold him steady.

Sam was breathing heavy and beads of sweat popped out on his upper lip. He gave a little jerk of his head, and I held the basin under his chin as he vomited - surprisingly nothing came up.

"It's okay, you can let it go, Sam."

"Errrr." Sam hissed, gnashing his teeth together hard enough to chip porcelain, defying his stomach and holding onto the water. "'Em good." He knocked my hand away with his casted arm.

"Just try to relax." I set the basin within easy reach should we truly need it.

Sam frowned at me.

"Okay, don't try to relax."

Sam squirmed to get comfortable, staring up at the ceiling miserably.

"How's it going down there?" I asked in my best smiling voice, trying to cheer my brother up.

"It's going." He let his head flop to the side gazing at me, his eyes nothing more than slits.

"You look like hell," I said tenderly.

Sam's brow puckered and his body tightened and he hunched back upward on a gag.

"Crap." In one swift move, I had the basin back under his stubbly chin, a hand supporting his bowed back.

Sam dry heaved twice, an anguished moan leaving his throat, and then once again shoved the basin away.

"Okay, that's enough. You're getting more drugs." I picked up the call button and pushed it.

"Be okay, Dean," Sam said, his voice breaking, eyes rimmed fiery-red.

I pushed the button again. "I've heard you slur that a bazillion-trillion times in the last three days. You're not okay."

"You can't even c-count," Sam shifted, twisting his mouth up in a lame effort to produce a smile instead of a grimace, "…that high," he whispered the last few words clearly in pain.

I looked to the empty, silent hallway pushing the button again. "You'd be surprised what a guy can do when he has nothing else to do. Damn it!" I pushed the button again when still no one responded.

"You get hold of dad?" Sam lay a hand over his bandaged stomach and caressed it lightly.

"No, for the bazillion-trillionth time," I grouched, pushing the call button again. "Why do you keep asking me that?"

"You know why," he grated out clenched teeth, shoulders rounding up then down. "How 'bout Bobby?" He looked at me with droopy eyes.

"Dude!" I barked pushing the call button five times in a row and shaking it at the same friggin' time. "Stop busting my chops."

"Gotta find dad," he grunted. "Gotta get out of here. I'll be fine," he swallowed thickly, eyes watering. "You'll see."

"You'll see just how not-fine you are and it will only take one feathery touch from me," I said in a threateningly measured tone, pushing the call button and holding it down a few seconds longer than the last five times. "Sammy." I leaned down low over him. "For Christ's sake, your heart stopped in the ambulance ride over here. Last I checked the American Heart Association does not certify that as fine. You have two broken ribs, two fractured, a broken left arm, stitches in your gut where they removed some piece of equipment that most people don't get removed –"

"Spleen," Sam murmured.

I pushed the call button. "I don't care if it was a friggin' jelly bean…you had surgery, you're in pain, have a fever, you're dizzy, nauseous, dry mouthed, your vision is blurry, you can barely stay awake, and that line of stitches across your belly is pitchforking your every –"

Sam groaned, throat working, chest heaving, and his face turning sickly-white.

"No, no, no." I grabbed the basin just as he lurched up and lost the water I worked so hard to get into him.

The sound of Sam coughing and spitting up water, made me wince, but the sick didn't last long. He didn't have much to give.

"Sorry. Sammy, I'm sorry," I rubbed his back waiting for him to take a few cleansing breaths and be sure he was done being sick.

"It's okay. Fine," he said in a shaky voice, slumping down into the pillows.

"Yeah, you're fine." I set the basin aside.

Sam stared up at me, his white face now grey, and forehead sweaty as he let out a few burps and flinched, his hand groping to clutch at the bandage again.

"Where the hell is that nurse," I snapped, really angry now and pushing the button down hard as if it were attached to explosives. Maybe something blowing up in here might gain us some attention.

I watched the doorway. Not a rubber soled shoe to be heard.

"Dean," Sam gasped.

"What?" I glanced down.

Sam was fumbling to wipe at his mouth.

"Hey, buddy." I nabbed the washcloth and wiped the dribble of vomit off his chin. "I swear to God, if that nurse is out there painting her nails." I slammed the washcloth to the table with a wet splat and stood.

Sam reached up and grabbed my arm. "Don't."

"Sammy, I'll be right back."

"She-she doesn't know."

"What'd you mean she doesn't know? She damn well better know, I only pushed the call button a bazillion-trillion times," I spat, spittle flying

Sam flinched.

"Easy. Sorry. Sorry, Sammy," I dropped a hand to his shoulder.

"I disconnected it," Sam said.

My eyes bugged. "Say what?"

"When you were sleeping." Sam averted his eyes.

"You what?" My eyebrows shot high up in shock. "Sammy, why would you –"

"You'd be surprised what a guy can do when he's...never mind, Dean, you won't understand."

"Make me," I challenged.

Sam rolled his head to look back at me, damp strands of floppy hair doing nothing to hide his tears. "She's dead. Dead because of me…need to find dad…can't if I'm drugged to the gills…hear her in my sleep…see her burning…screaming," Sam choked on a sob. "My wife…Dean, she was going to be my wife."

Hearing the raw, hard pain in my brother's voice made me shiver and my heart sank to my feet.

It took me a minute to find my voice, and then I said, "We're going to find dad, Sammy, I promise you. I swear to you." I pointed an unwavering finger at him. "I swear, okay? But pal, I need you one hundred and ten percent before we do that."

Sam's eyes fluttered open and shut, but never left my face as he listened intently.

"We are going to find the evil bastard that killed Jess and I'm going to stand right at your back, brother, and watch while you slice out its heart. You understand that?" I splayed my hand gently across his chest. "But you know the rules, Sam. And Dad's first rule is if you're going to go after something evil, you damn well better be strong and ready…and Sammy you are nowhere near strong and ready." I dipped my head. "So, I do not want to hear another word about dad until then. You got me?"

Sam's mouth tightened.

"Don't fight me on this. As soon as you gain back some of your strength we're going to hike it to Bobby's place. Nothing but rest and relaxation in the thirty-day forecast for you, then we hit the road and we find dad."

A little bit of color came back to Sam's face, his cheeks turning red.

"Sammy? Promise." I cocked a dangerous brow at him.

"Yeah, Okay," he breathed, placing his hand on top of mine. "Promise."

"Awesome." I sat up and scratched at the stubble on my chin, noting Sam's stubble was even thicker than mine. "How about I get that nurse and she helps you go back to sleep, and when you wake up, we'll see about you and me getting rid of the grunge look."

"Not tired," Sam said, looking at me like I was saying something really stupid, and then ba-da-bing… he was out.

I picked up the call button and started to work on reconnecting it. "_You're not getting off that easy, smartass."_

"I'm here for you, Sammy." I reached out a hand and pulled his hair out of his eyes. "That's all you need to know for now," I said, pushing the call button

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Everything was still dark, but the numbness keeping me floating weightless in a warm pool was all but gone. My throat was scratchy and raw from throwing up. I tried to swallow but my Adams apple involuntarily went into a bobbing spasm.

"Just stay under, Sammy." A hand patted my upper arm.

My head lolled to the side.

"Someone up there is watching over him," a female voice softly whispered.

The hand that was patting my arm must have made its way to my head as fingers gently tangled into my hair.

"Going to have to change his name to Cousin Itt," came a light chuckle. "Bro. Haircut. Now."

_Dean._

I reached up to smack my annoying brother's hand_._ _No one was cutting my hair_.

The female voice sighed angrily. "You've gone and disturbed him."

"Nah, he was already disturbed, right Sammy?"

"Humph," I grumbled, surfing a wave of pain as I cautiously opened my eyes, knowing Dean was joking around because something not too good was going on.

A blast of white light clawed at my retinas causing tears to squeeze out and fall down my cheeks.

I let out a raspy groan.

"Sorry, sorry, kiddo," Dean muttered, easing a hand over my eyes to shade them. "Need the light on so we can change your bandages."

Ignoring the knife stabbing into the center of my gut, I glanced around.

One self-loathing older brother, one pouty-lipped nurse with attitude, a ceiling, four blank-white walls, window –brown curtains drawn, one bedside chair, and an octopus of plastic tubing coming from two IV bags and leading directly to my right arm, my left in a cast. _Still in the hospital. Terrific._ And yet another nurse – her nametag read Millie – in close proximity, busily hunched over and fiddling around with the large bandage tapped to my belly.

I looked back at Dean. He was so worn out and drawn, like he'd just fought off a vamp, shifter, and wendigo all at the same time.

I took a deep breath and concentrated on forming each word. "What's… going… on?"

"Just a little maintenance." Dean smiled a little.

"He's not a car," Nurse Millie hissed, removing the bandage gently.

This was the first time I was awake enough to get a look at the incision. It was large, and sewed up with a lot of staples that still oozed a little blood.

"That looks a little red," Dean observed, rotating his body to block my view.

"It's not too bad," Nurse Millie said softly. "Like I said he has someone up there watching over him."

"Did you press the button again, Dean?" I asked, rubbing at my eyes.

"Mmm-Hmmm, you know that's right," Millie drawled. "Like ten times in a row."

"Was making sure it worked. You never know who's going to screw with it," Dean said sarcastically. "Is it infected?" His forehead creased as he watched the nurse cleaning up around the surgery wound.

"I bet he thinks pressing the elevator button ten times in a row makes it appear faster too, correct?" Nurse Millie looked up at me and winked, ignoring Dean.

"Correct." I winked back, then wrenched away when Millie touched a tender spot.

"Trying to be gentle here, Sammy," she said caringly.

"You are," I said not having the energy to bother correcting her for calling me Sammy. Besides, she was sweet.

Dean flashed me an offended look.

I shrugged, struggling to control the pain, my breathing growing more and more ragged the more she fiddled about.

Dean bit into his lower lip.

I sank deeper into the mattress.

"Almost done, Sammy," Millie offered sympathetically.

I wanted to tell her not to worry, I was fine but instead I let out a small cry of pain, gulping for air.

"Son of a bitch," Dean's roared. "Will you hurry it up with him."

"It's important we clean this well. It's not infected yet, but it could get there fast at this stage," Millie said soothingly, mouth tightening at the corners when I yelped like a wounded puppy.

"Give him something, damn it!" Dean half -ordered, half-begged.

"Dean," I scolded, feeling embarrassed.

Like lightening, Nurse Millie had a syringe in her hand "I can give him twenty milligrams of Morphine, but no more. Doctor's orders," she twirled to plunge the needle into the tubing running into my veins.

"No," I protested weakly.

Dean's eyes blew wide and his hands knotted into fists. "What do you mean, no," he bit out.

Millie stopped abruptly. "I can't administer it if he refuses," she told Dean.

"It's okay, Sweetheart." Dean told Nurse Millie, then lashed out at me, "Sam! We've been through this already." He flashed me his patented 'I'm-about-to-break-please Sammy-just do it' look, the equivalent of my puppy eyes.

"Not fair." I blinked rapidly.

"Sam. Take the drugs," Dean repeated dully as he started pacing back and forth at the foot of my bed.

For a moment I considered telling bossy no, but I really was in pain. "Okay," I mumbled so soft I barely heard myself.

Millie injected the tubing and the morphine kicked in – fast. I quickly became lost in a fog of sensory deprivation, all warm and whirling and only half aware of things around me.

Nurse Sweetheart…I mean Millie went back to tending and Bossy Warden Dean went back to pacing, his eyes never leaving mine. But he just kept getting smaller and smaller. Like he was wading through sand, moving slower and slower, face stretching and contorting as the room tunneled to a near pinprick.

"Better, Sam?" Dean face appeared at the end of the dark tunnel, his words coming out his mouth sounding very Vader-like

"Mmm-Hmmm, you know that's right," I drawled out, barely able to keep my eyes open.

Dean laughed, "You're stoned."

"It's some good shit," I muttered, then felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. "Sorry, I'm sorry, Nurse Sweetheart," I said blinking up at Millie.

Damn I hated getting stoned, but had to admit it was better than the pain.

"It's okay, love, let it take you under, my work is done here." She tapped on a clean piece of gauze, gave my tummy a light pat and left.

Dean grouched out something about corny brothers, dropping down into the plastic chair.

"H-hope your ass fall-falls…sleep," I said sluggishly as my head sagged to one side and my eyes drifted shut.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Days drifted in and out along with Sam, and apparently being here over a week earned us an upgrade. The new room was at least bigger and broccoli-green instead of boring white. Sam, he was still weak, and in pain, but doing much better. He'd even been taken off the IV and heart monitor, and was staying awake longer. My ass on the other hand wasn't very okay. It was more than numb. It was just gone.

Entertaining myself while Sam slept was getting harder and harder. Still not willing to leave his side for long, I'd rush to grab a cup of coffee or take a lake-of- a- leak. The food was mostly disgusting, so I didn't eat much. Mostly I sat in the chair or wandered around the putrid-green room.

There wasn't much to look at, and I could only read so many Good Housekeeping magazines. One day maybe Sam and I would have a home of our own and I could put all the recipes I'd memorized to good use.

There was one painting on the wall. I'd spent hours staring at it. It was a framed canvas of an outdoor Italian café. The tables all had real silk linens and red and green striped umbrellas jammed in the center of them. The waiter was a happy fat guy with a broom mustache, wearing a white baker's hat and red bandanna. He held a tray of pastries high over his head with one hand as he busily served all of his patrons. There was just something safe and comforting about it. I couldn't stop looking at the painting every time I passed by- which was often. I knew every red brick in that cobblestone road. I'd even pictured Sam and I living inside the painting. Sammy sipping on ginger tea from a flower china cup and me chowing-down a plateful of sausage, egg and cheese croissants.

When I wasn't being a dork looking at the painting, I'd wander over to the window and stare out. During the day I'd watch people come and go, go and come. At night, after a kind nurse would bring me a tray of disgusting food that I barely could choke down – I'd go back to staring out the window.

This was night eight and I was extremely antsy. Still couldn't get hold of dad, and only got in a handful of words to Bobby before his cell died as he was on a hunt with Rufus and out of service a lot of the time.

With nothing else to do – again –I sat on the window ledge. Pressing my forehead to the cold glass, I watched the twinkling lights of the far-off-big city. They looked more like fireflies than actual lights. It brought back memories of Sam and I, as kids, running around the back field of the Salvage yard with Bobby's canning jars catching millions of the little suckers.

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to hang onto that. Was a much better thing to have in my brain than Sammy squashed under –

"Your ass numb yet?" Sam rasped.

My eyes shot open and my back stiffened at the sound of my brother's weak voice.

I turned around.

Sam looked at me groggily.

"Permanently," I tiredly admitted making my way over to gingerly sit back in the chair beside his bed.

Sam shivered as if he were layered in snow and not blankets.

I drew up the extra blanket that was at the foot of the bed and tucked the corners in all around him.

Sam quirked a half-smile, huddling down under and his shivering stopped.

It cut my heart in two to see the genuine look of thanks on his face for such a simple act. I instinctually went to stroke his hair, but stopped when Sam said, "Can't mother me forever, Dean."

"Who's mothering?" I dropped my hand.

Before Sam could answer a pleasantly plump elderly nurse walked in. "Good evening, boys. I'm Nurse Queeny. I'm Sam's new night nurse."

Her name suited her. She was a big woman but walked like she was floating on a cushion. Every movement made imperial and noble. "It's time for your pain medication, Samuel."

Sam cringed sliding down further under the blankets as if trying to hide as the nurse approached the bedside.

"You're not going to fight me on this are you, Samuel?" she said in a kindly grandmotherly tone.

Was my turn to cringe.

"Get me in trouble with Doctor Roberts you will."

"Samuel would never dream of doing that to you," I smirked. "Would you, Samuel?"

"No Ma'am," Sam sheepishly said.

"You'll take the pills then?" She handed Sam a white paper cup with two small blue pills rattling around inside, and some water.

Sam hesitated.

"Samuel, do what the nice nurse tells you to," I said trying to hold back a bout of laughter.

"Nice is not a label that's usually given to describe me," Queeny said sternly.

Sam took the offered water and swallowed.

"All gone, Samuel?" she asked.

"Yes, Ma'am," Sam handed her back the cup a fake smile decorating his face, because he fake swallowed the pills.

I was about to tell Nurse Queen, but she beat me to the punch

"I'm waiting, Samuel." Nurse Queeny stood tapping her soft shoe to the floor glaring down her nose at Sam suspiciously.

Sam stared up at her, doing his innocent puppy-eyed thing. "For what?" he asked.

"Swallow them, please."

"I did." Sam shook his head and shrugged.

"Samuel," Queeny loomed over him, her expression growing darker by the second. "Are you still confused about who is in charge on this floor?"

"No, Ma'am." Sam seemed to shrink to the size of a small child.

Queeny frowned deeply. "I do have other ways of administering pills to stubborn patience." She raised one suggestive brow. "Oral of course is the recommended procedure, but there are other delivery systems. Other places." She cocked her head to one side and peered at Sam's lower extremities. "There's that," she glanced back at him threateningly.

"Yikes." I squirmed uncomfortably. "Uh, Sammy, you better do what the mean…" Queeny turned her daggerd on me full force. "I mean…what the nice nurse wants you to do."

Sam shot me a look, searching for help.

"Hey, man, you're on your own here." I held my hands up.

Sam waved at the cup of water Millie still held in her hand.

She handed it over and Sam took three huge gulps swallowing hard.

"Thank you, Samuel." Queenie turned on her heels stately leaving the room, closing the door softly behind her.

"Holy crap. What places?" I swiped beads of sweat off my forehead. "Think I'm emotionally scarred for life, and it wasn't even my backdoors she was talking about."

"Shut up," Sam sulked. "So what do we do from here?" he asked sleepily.

"You, my brother are still on bed rest for a few more days. Just hope our insurance doesn't lapse."

Sam sighed. "What about Bobby?" He flung an arm over his eyes.

"He tried to call us yesterday his really worried about you. We had a bad connection so I couldn't hear all he was saying… something about hunting a gargoyle with Rufus up in the Black Hills."

"Gargoyles are hard to kill," Sam muttered, his arm slipping off his eyes as he fell asleep.

"Don't worry about it, Sammy," I whispered. "Bobby and Rufus can handle it." My cell rang as if on cue. I pulled the phone from my pocket. "Huh, speaking of." I flipped the phone open.

Sam grumbled and shifted onto his side for the first time without grunting in pain.

"Hey, Bobby," I whispered, staring at Sam in aw. ""He just took some meds and is heading back into the Matrix."

Sam sighed and tossed his head a little.

I froze, not wanting to wake him.

He settled again, lightly snoring.

"Hold on, Bobby." I gingerly got up out of the chair and crept over to the window and sat, cupping my hand around the phone so I wouldn't wake Sam. "Okay, what was that?"

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

I ran my tongue over the tiny paper cut like cracks along my lips and blinked away the particles of sand that were stuck to my eyelashes. Staring up at the ceiling I watched several water spots as they flew in combat formation above me.

I frowned. _Oh, yeah, hospital. Where you were force-fed the good stuff whether you wanted the good stuff or not. _ The warmth of the drugs surged through my veins like rough ocean tides hitting land.

There was a burbling voice off to my right and my head seemed to move on autopilot rolling on the pillow until I caught sight of Dean.

He was sitting on the windowsill, his back to me, talking quietly on his cell phone. Outside, the sky had turned to taffy. Swirls of flavorful goodness, sticky and stretching apart, twisting and folding in upon itself.

"That's not scientifically possible," I muttered softly.

I wasn't a huge sweet eater. But taffy was to me, like pie was to Dean. And the last time I remembered having any was years ago when dad was on a hunt in Atlantic City. Staring out the window right now I could practically taste the flavors. Soft blobs of bubblegum, butter scotch, chocolate, orange, peach, rum, sassafras and strawberry.

"Oh, man," I said, smacking my lips together.

"Sam?" Dean glanced my way. "What?"

I couldn't manage any words, but I did manage a big smile.

"Dude, why are you smiling?"

"Carmel swirl," I licked my lips.

"I'm talking to Bobby, Sam. Go to sleep. It's just the drugs kicking in." Dean went back to talking.

"'Bobby," I exhaled. _Good. _Maybe I'd be out of here soon.

_Thumpety-thump-thump._

Something hit the side of the building. I knee jerked upward. "Crap! What was that?" I clutched at the intense pain in my stomach from to sudden a movement.

"Don't worry about it, Sammy," Dean said, no longer on the phone but now deeply engrossed in a magazine.

Outside, the sky had changed from taffy-candy-colored to winter-gray. Thick and ominous clouds gathered and swirled about threatening a storm. The wind howled and the room tilted at an abnormal angle. Strangely, no furniture went sliding about and Dean remained at his post with his magazine.

My heart started to pound, gut instincts kicking in. "Dean, something's wrong."

My brother just kept right on flipping pager after page, a smirky-smile spreading across his face.

_Thumpety-thump-thump- thump._

"There it is again." I tilted my head and squinted, but saw nothing. A wave of panic rushed through me. "Dean. Something's out there."

Dean sighed wearily. "Maybe you need more meds."

"Maybe you need to get your nose out of the porn mag, Dean," I snapped.

Something screamed like a banshee, and I looked to Dean.

"Little Red," Dean clicked his tongue, holding the magazine up to the light. "Want to dance with the Big Bad Wolf?"

"Dude! Stow the porn," I yelled out in anger. "Tell me you didn't hear that?"

"Told you, Sammy it's just the drugs kicking in. Go to sleep, man," he muttered again, totally disinterestedly and not even bothering to take his eyes from the mag.

I shivered with spine-chilling cold, recognizing the sound of claws scrabbling to get a good hold.

"Damn it, Dean, I think it's come…"

A wet slap hit the window and my eyes went wide.

"…ing."

A giant, black bat perched on the windowsill, staring through the glass right at me. It was solid muscle; leathery wings flapping, hot breath fogging the windowpane.

Dean didn't as much as flinch, still eyeballing Little Red, only a thin pane of glass separating him from the large gaping mouth full of jagged teeth.

I couldn't catch my breath, panting and blurry-eyed and fumbling to unplug from the IV and heart monitor wires.

"What you say, Sammy?" Dean casually flipped another page of the magazine.

"Gargoyle," I grit out clenched teeth.

"Gargoyles are hard to kill," Dean muttered.

The gargoyle's eyes lit up red and it let out a terrible screech. One clawed hand struck the glass sending spider web cracks branching out.

"Behind you," I hissed doubling over at the stab of pain in my gut.

Dean finally glanced over at the beast. "Uh-huh," he muttered, nonchalantly shrugging his shoulders his upstairs brain obviously and totally turned off.

The gargoyle bit at the window with its double-set of razor-sharp teeth and it's head burst through the glass sending walnut-sized shards to the tiled floor. A cold wind blew through the room, knocking my IV stand over. It smiled at me, eyes sparkling with delight as a hooked claw traced along Dean's neck.

Dean didn't seem to notice a thing. Just sat there still ogling the damn magazine.

"No." I finally managed to rip out my IV, blood splattering the sheets as I swung my legs out from under the covers. The pain when my bare feet hit the cold tile dragged me straight down to my knees. "Ah! Dean!" I cried out.

I crawled along the floor on hands and knees in dire need to protect my brother.

I couldn't move fast enough, my body weak and trembling and gagging for air.

"Get away from him. Get away now," I choked out. "Don't touch him," I growled as fiercely as I could from my prone position on the floor.

The gargoyle gave a loud screech and aggressively bit deep into Dean's neck

"Dean." I yelled in horror as blood dripped to the floor like rainwater, Dean's legs twitching as he scrunched the magazine in his hand.

The gargoyle released Dean's neck for a brief second, only to take his whole head into its mouth.

"Sam! Sammy," Dean's muffled voice called out to me.

Then in a strong wind of flapping, leathery wings the gargoyle took flight, takingmy brother with it.

"Stop! Stop!" I pulled myself across the floor through thick puddles of my brother's blood. "Come back! Bring him back!"

They were long gone. My brother-rescuing efforts were as piss-poor as any of my other rescue efforts as of late.

The sky turned pitch black and I swore I could still hear Dean calling out to me, but all I could do was squeeze my eyes shut and sit in my brother's blood and cry.

_I couldn't save Dean from a horribly painful death. I couldn't save him._

"Dean, Dean, Dean," I sobbed over and over.

"Sammy! Damn you! Wake up!" A slap came to the side of my face and I sat straight up, Dean's name a dying scream on my lips as my eyes flew open.

"Whao! Sam! Hey!" Dean had a hold of both my flailing arms. "Dream, man, it's just a dream."

"Dean." I had to blink a couple of times to be sure it was him. Every one of my muscles was twitching and straining as I desperately fought to catch my breath. "How'd you get away?" My eyes darted over to the window.

"Sam?" Dean called my name softly. "Come on, pal, you in there?"

I looked all around the room in confusion. The sun was streaming in, warm and bright. The window was intack. No shards of glass. No puddles of blood. No taffy colored sky.

"Wha' happen?" I glanced down at my hand. No blood. No ripped out IV. In fact there was no IV at all. No heart monitors either. "Where?" I frowned.

"You got downgraded, yesterday, remember?"

"Yes and no." I looked to the window, then back at Dean.

"You fell out of your nest, big bird." Dean clutched at my right arm, looking at me with great concentration.

"Nest?" I was having a hard time keeping up.

"Gravity, Sammy, it's the law." He pointed to the hospital bed I was supposed to be lying in.

"Wha'?"

"You had a nightmare." He put an arm across my back and pulled me up.

I let out a strangled moan as he got me back into bed.

Dean perched on the edge of the mattress, hands roaming all over my body. "You okay? You hurt anywhere?"

"I'm okay," I winced.

"Uh-huh." Dean bent down low over me an angry look on his face, or maybe that was worry. Or maybe both. "What the hell were you dreaming about that brought you bolting out of a hospital bed crying?" he demanded.

"It's hazy." I shook my head. "You were reading a magazine and –"

"Dirty?" Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Of course." My gaze shifted to the window.

"Something came through the window?"

"It got you…killed you…I couldn't stop it."

"Sammy, I'm here. Nothing got me, okay? Nothing killed me. And besides, you know what doesn't kill me makes me more awesome," Dean laughed, swiping my bangs out of my eyes.

"Except for gargoyles, gargoyles will kill you, Dean," I turned serious eyes on him. "Was so real."

"Dude, that's what had you bolting to the floor," Dean laughed. "Probably the pills you swallowed coupled with the fact the last thing we were talking about before you conked out was Bobby and Rufus hunting Gargoyles," Dean explained. "Kiddo, It's over now."

_ "_How's Booby?"

"He and Rufus got the bitch."

"Good." I closed my eyes feeling dizzy and giddy at the same time. _Damn pills_

"You going back to sleep?"

"Hopefully," I muttered, readjusting my casted arm and wincing as I tried to get more comfortable.

"How's the arm?"

I lifted one eye open. "I don't know…how is it?"

"Broken, remember?" Dean chuckled.

"Again?"

"Yes, again."

"Dude," I popped open my other eye. "Thaaaat sucks ass,"I grouched.

"Bro," Dean chuckled again. "I think you need to make sure we take plenty of happy juice with us for the trip to Bobby's place."

"Want to go now."

"Soon as you're up to it, Sam."

"Up to it now!" I struggled upward, but pitched sideways, Dean catching me in his arms.

"Sammy, you can't even walk."

"We crawl before we can walk," I debated.

"Sam, do not argue with me."

"Not arguing, Dean. I'm just explaining why I'm right." I sat away from him. "Just help me get dressed."

"You're still drugged up and groggy, fragile princess. You are not going anywhere."

"Yes I am. Not staying here anymore." I flicked a glance over at the window and shivered.

"Show some common sense, buddy."

"I am."

"Trust me. You're not."

I raised a fist. "Two out of three."

"Bro, you cannot paper-scissor-rock your way out of this."

"You don't understand, Dean." I groaned at the pain radiating through my body, dropping my fist to the bed in defeat.

"Sammy, I understand. I don't expect you to be putting out one hundred percent when we blow this jail, but you're not even putting out fifty percent right now. You need to stay in this bed and let the nurses treat you like a king for at least a few more days. Got me?"

"I'll be the sofa king once we get to Bobby's," I promised.

Nurse Queeny took that moment to poke her head in. "Everything all right in here?"

"Oh, crap," I whispered under my breath, slinking down and drawing the covers up to my chin.

"My idiot brother needs another shot of the good stuff to help him relax," Dean told her gruffly.

Queeny glanced at her wristwatch. "In one hour… I'll be back." Then she was gone.

Dean laughed. "Guess she's channeling Schwarzenegger."

I didn't' smile.

Didn't laugh.

Didn't say a word.

Just bit into my lip, my mind reeling.

"Good," Dean sighed and stood up from the bed. "Love the sound you make when you shut up."

Then it dawned on me. "She certainly isn't on a Lindsay-Lohan-bender."

"What?" Dean squawked.

"You said yourself once, Dean, and I quote, "I'm not gonna die in a hospital where the nurses aren't even hot."

"You're not dying, Sam." Dean flinched. "Not anymore. You're healing. And pretty damn well, if you can keep from falling out of the nest again. And besides, Nurse Millie was sort of hot"

"Yeah, well, sort of don't count." I picked at a piece of lint on the blanket.

"It don't?" Dean chuckled.

"I'm not going to heal in a hospital where the nurses aren't busty enough."

Dean burst out laughing. "Is that the drugs talking?"

"No, Dean, it's me talking. And if you don't get me out of here right now I am going to walk out of here on my toe," I shook my head. "I mean on my own when you're not looking and climb a bus."

"First off I am always looking, Sam. And second off…you, dear brother, couldn't climb out of this bed without help."

"Watch me." I flashed Dean the smuggest look I could manage.

"Watch me tackle your ass back into bed." Dean bent in real close to my face

"You can't catch me. Meep-meep." I stared him down daringly.

Dean stared at me blankly. Roadrunner? Really?"

"Meep-meep," I dared again.

"This coyote will kick your Roadrunner ass all over the map," he said with cool calm.

"You're a jerk." My lower lip stuck out and started to tremble and my eyes went hard, my face fireplace-hot.

"Twenty years ago that look would have gotten you all the candy I could steal," Dean said, his tense shoulders sagging. "You want out that badly?"

"Yes." I bitchfaced him.

Dean thought about that a minute. "Mmmm," he said.

"What's mmmm?" I asked.

"Tell you what, Sammy. You make the trip to the bathroom without any help from me and I'll get us out of here by midnight tomorrow."

I looked across the great divide estimating it to be only a few feet.

"I can do that."

"Show me." Dean's eyes went hard.

I took in a deep breath and tossed back the covers, swung my legs over and slapped my bare feet to the cold tiled floor_. I'd show him all right_.

Instantly my legs went buttery, my ears buzzed, and beads of sweat popped out on my upper lip. The stitches in my gut started to burn and pull and I wobbled, plopping back down on the edge of the bed.

"Mmmm." Dean hummed.

"Stop with the 'mmmm's' already." I took a few quick gulps of air and stood again.

Dean stood in front of me blocking my path.

"You mind?" I straightened my bent body…at least I tried to.

With wariness in his eyes, Dean backed up until he was leaning against the wall on the other side of the room. I ignored the fact he was too close to the window.

It was like walking a tightrope, that few feet. I wasn't sure I could do it. Each step was incredibly hard and sending waves of pain through every part of me.

"You're leaning too far to the left," Dean coached.

I rolled my eyes adjusting my stride.

"Now you're taking too small of steps and leaning to the right."

I tried for bigger steps and pulled my body inward.

"Now you're –"

"Damn it, Dean." I stopped and shot him a look, nearly loosing my balance altogether. Righting myself I huffed, "Just give me a minute to get there, will you?"

"Give you all the time you want."

"Great. Thanks for that."

"Welcome."

I started up again and finally got there, went inside, and locked the door.

I figured when I came back out Dean would be right there waiting to catch me 'cause I sure felt like I was going to fall. But he wasn't. He was still standing over by the window, leaning against the wall. Arms crossed, eyes dancing with delight.

"Everything come out okay?" he grinned.

"Gross." I passed a hand over my sweaty face. "Want my pants." I pushed away from the door. "And…and…and my socks….and need my-" the room suddenly flipped upside down and dumped me on my head.

"Whoa, Sam!"

Next thing I knew, Dean had me in his arms, the room back to being upright. "We're still leaving," I wheezed against his neck. "I showed you, Dean."

"Yeah, bro, you showed me, but before we leave you have to do me a favor."

My head plopped down onto Dean's shoulder, my arms dangling at my sides. "You want pie." I tried to push away.

"No Sam." Dean squeezed me tighter, I squeezed back. "I want you to stop drooling on my shirt." He inched me around and hooked an arm around my waist, moving be back over to the bed.

"Are you going to put my pants on for me, Dean?"

"I'll talk you through it."

TBC…


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I knew I was flirting dangerously with Sam's health, leaving the hospital early, but truth was our insurance had run out. Not to mention Sam wasn't the only one going stir-crazy in that room. I knew how taxing taking the stairs would be for him, but we couldn't risk being seen getting on the elevator; which was directly across the nurses' station.

We'd been going at a slow steady pace. My arm wrapped around Sam's waist, his right hand gripping the cold, rusted handrail.

It was eight grueling levels to the parking garage. Sam had done fairly well the first three flights, but now he was more stumbling than walking and looking pretty darn winded. It seemed more like we were going uphill through ten feet of snow rather than heading down a dingy stairwell.

"You need to sit and take a minute?" I asked glancing over at Sam.

"Just warming up," Sam huffed and puffed. "When did you have time to get the Impala?" he asked purposely changing the subject.

"Didn't, had her towed."

"You had Baby towed?"

"She'll forgive me, and besides, I had my hands kinda full, Sammy."

"Still do," Sam chuckled, and skipped a step falling forward.

"Whoa!" I snatched him up by his jacket collar. "Hey, hey, walk will you?" I barked, brushing up closer and hugging him to my hip.

"I am walking, Dean," Sam protested, his voice barely rising above the sound of our clomping footsteps echoing off the cement walls.

"That what you call it."

"I call shotgun," Sam muttered, shuffling along.

"Bro, you need to lie down in the back seat you're still a bit loopy."

"Just got off a two week sleep festival, Dean, believe me…I'll be more comfortable up front next to you."

Sam's pale skin and panting breaths and crazy hair did nothing to ease my worry.

"Eight days, not two weeks. And while that's all very flattering, Sam, you are shit-canned already, man, and you have not even been up on your feet for twenty minutes."

"I'm perfectly perfect, Dean."

"You've got a winning combination of injuries that are still a ways off from being healed up," I said.

"No early to bed routines at Bobby's, please," Sam whined. "I'm so sick of the sick, you understand?"

"Too well," I said stopping at the next landing because I didn't like how Sam was wheezing. "This is what I'm talking about."

" Dean." Sam tried to tug away, but I wouldn't let him. "We're not going to do this routine the whole way to Bobby's I can handle myself."

"Will you give me a break?" I looked at him sternly.

"You?" Sam squawked obviously offended.

"Yes, me," I said angrily.

Sam opened his mouth to say something smartass I'm sure, but I stopped him with a finger to his lips.

"Look, "I took in a breath trying to calm my edgy nerves. "Call me nutty, call me a fruit cake, but Sam, I think I have a right after the crap you pulled on me."

Sam's brows went up questioningly.

"I thought you were going to die man," I exclaimed, letting out my pent up emotions. "Hell, Sam you did, and you scared the crap out of me. I don't ever want to feel like that again. If I ever feel like that again, bro, I might have to do something desperate...you understand?"

Sam gave a curt nod as I still had my finger pressed to his lips keeping him quiet.

"So when I ask you to take it easy, and drink your water, or take a nap, eat your Wheaties, take your Bugs Bunny meds, or just plain stop being a Sammybitch….you damn well need to do that for me right now, or I swear. I swear I will lose it. And if I lose it, I am going to end up a ward of the Jif factory. Got it?" I glared at him, slowly taking my finger away from his lips.

Sam squirmed uncomfortably, his eyes watering as his armor cracked.

_Good._

"Come on three more levels to go. Just breathe easy." I maneuvered us around the bend, keeping a tight arm around Sam's waist as we took the steps a little slower.

Sam rolled his eyes at me, but allowed the help.

I gave Captain Marvel a quick look, he was clearly unstable, but I decided to let him go it for now and just kept as close to the independent geek as I dared.

We finally got to the car and I opened the passenger side door for Sam. "Cushy leather," I said with a smile. "You win this one," I surrendered. "You can ride shotgun, but don't get cocky."

Sam narrowed his eyes at me.

"It's only because I want to keep a close eye on you," I explained.

Sam cocked his head at me and gave me a pissy look.

I waved a hand with flourish. "Your carriage awaits, my queen."

Sam said nothing and climbed in. "Don't let your dress ride up, Francis," I chuckled.

Sam grouched settling into the seat and clamping his lower lip with his upper teeth, but a grunt of pain escaped anyway.

I pretended I didn't hear it and shut the door, got behind the wheel, and headed us the hell out of dodge and toward the freeway.

Ten miles down the road, I was barely getting away with my tactical sideways glances. Every time Sam caught my eyes I could tell how badly he wanted to yell at me to stop it, or worse sucker punch me. Maybe my gut spilling speech did the trick and little brother would march to my tune. At least for the time being. I knew it wouldn't last. Because I know my brother.

I tried to drive slowly and avoid any major bumps or potholes - judging by the way Sam kept his eyes front and center biting back moans and groans as we went - it didn't seem to matter. The trip down the stairs and into the car had taken its toll on Sam. He was soaked in sweat and his eyes were small. I knew he'd overdone it, and I just wanted to get him to Bobby's right now. But we had a bit of a drive ahead of us.

I slowed the car and reached in the backseat for a couple of waters. "Here." I handed Sam over a bottle, surprised when he took it, cracked the top and downed it heartily. "Hey, go easy on that." I opened my own and took small sips trying to set the example.

Sam mimicked me, clutching at his right side and leaning his head back against the seat.

"How about you getting some shut eye?" I asked, though it was more of an order I tried to word it nicely.

Sam turned his head slowly and looked at me as if I'd shot his dog. "I understand, Dean, you were freaked, and I'm sorry you had to go through that, but you have to understand too," he said politely.

I stiffened waiting for more of a confrontation, but it didn't come. He simple reached out a hand, took a hold of my arm and pulled himself across the seat until he sagged heavily against me and laid his head on my shoulder.

I found it hard to swallow past the lump that formed in my throat, but managed to say in a cocky tone, "You comfy?"

Sam nodded yes, breathed lightly then was out.

"Huh?" I turned the radio on low and headed toward the freeway.

Six cups of bad coffee, three tanks of gas, one roadside pit stop so Sammy could throw up, and a snails crawl of rush hour traffic later, I decided we needed to pull over for the night. The last two motels I'd stopped at, both had their_ no vacancies_ signs and the same held true for the third – a small country Bed and Breakfast.

I stomped out of the front door and back to where I'd parked the Impala under a lamppost.

Sammy had done as I'd asked while I'd gone to check on a room, and hadn't moved looking exhausted and beyond sleep.

I ripped open the door and plopped down behind the wheel, slamming the door shut.

"No rooms?" Sam asked weakly.

"It's friggin' Bethlehem," I barked.

"We can just sleep in the Pala, Dean."

"For Christ's sake, Sam, you want to end up in an ER!" I shouted. "You need proper rest." There came a flash of lighting followed by driving rain banging against the roof and sliding down in sheets over the windshield. "Oh, this just gets better and better."

"Dean, look," Sam muttered.

"Sam, don't start with that 'look' crap."

"No, I mean, look." He pointed out the windshield.

I followed Sam's pointing finger, leaning over the steering wheel and peering out into the rain. A woman in a green rainslicker, rubber boots and umbrella to match was running our way.

"Who is that?"

"Innkeeper," I grouched, rolling down my window as she came to stand outside my door.

"I feel really bad," she spoke over the sound of the rain, pulling the umbrella down closer to her head. "I know you said your brother wasn't feeling well, and we are all booked, but if you'd like there's a small goat barn with lots of hay and it's dry and free of drafts." She shrugged looking embarrassed if not ashamed. "No charge."

I nodded. "We'll take it."

"Great, I'll throw in some blankets and a couple of cans of heated soup and crackers too. It's just out back." She pointed beyond the motel. "You can pull up to the office to park, but you'll have to walk the rest of the way." She looked over at Sam worriedly.

"Thanks, that's very kind of you, and we'll be just fine," Sam said.

She smiled at him. "Oh, and here," she handed me a folded umbrella through the window, then ran back to the office.

"Friggin' nativity scene," I hissed.

"Dean, it's something. We've had worse."

"Yeah, well you get to be the Madonna with child. I'll be Joseph."

"You'd make a better Donkey…since you're such an ass," Sam snorted, then laughed.

"You'd make a better Donkey…since you're such an ass," I echoed back mockingly, actually glad to be the butt – pun intended – of Sam's joke. _It felt good to hear him laugh._

I pulled the car up to the office and gathered up a few things into one duffle bag, then exited the car. "Don't worry, Sammy," I opened his door. "I'll take good care of you," I said fumbling to shoulder the duffle while at the same time trying to open the umbrella.

I expected some sort of smartass remark about not being five, but Sam slowly swung his feet out onto the pavement and was coming up to stand.

"Wait, wait," I said still having not gotten the umbrella opened, and watching Sam's bangs plaster over his eyes. "Damn it."

"Don't worry if you can't get it up, Dean," Sam murmured, gripping onto the open passenger door for balance.

"Dude! I can always get it up," I screwed with the umbrella a few seconds more.

"Dean, let's just go, by the time you get it up –"

"Stop saying that!" I screeched, seeing Sammy was already nearly drenched to the bone. I tossed the umbrella into the car took him by the arm and slammed the door. "Come on."

"I can do it myself," Sam protested.

"Shut it, Rebel without a Cause."

Strangely enough, Sam did as I asked and shut it while I bundled him close and dashed as fast as I dared toward the shed.

We ducked our heads against the cold, blowing wind trotting behind the motel and splashing down a cobblestone path that reminded me of the Bistro painting in Sam's hospital room.

I slid open the shed door and we rushed inside, both of us shivering from the rain. I kept a grip on Sam's arm as he waivered slightly taking in our accommodations.

There wasn't much to the shed. It smelled of honey,oats, dust and milk. Reminded me of that organic crap cereal Sam was always eating. The lighting was dim, lit by a few overhead hanging bulbs, and the place was indeed full of hay. The motel manager had already left the blankets, and the promised two bowls of heated soup and crackers on a sawhorse. She even provided paper napkins. Good news was I could plump the hay up to make a pretty comfortable bed for Sammy; bad news was the place was also full of goats.

"Ho...ly shit," I snarled when one of the Billy goat's gruff came up to me and started nibbling on the corner pocket of my jacket. "Hey, Butch, that's real leather, get your lips off." I bellowed, a flash of lightning followed by a clash of thunder backing me up.

The four-legged trashcan startled and bounced off to a corner stall, gathering with a few others.

"You didn't have to scare it," Sam said softly.

"Damn mutt ripped my jacket."

"It's not a dog, Dean. They're Nigerian Dwarf goats."

I frowned at Sam.

"What?" He frowned back.

My frown deepened. "You seriously have issues."

"Whatever," Sam shivered.

"Whatever is right, let's just get you situated. I sat Sam down on an overturned bucket. "Out of those wet clothes."

Sam sighed, but didn't argue as I stretched and struggled to get the soaked shirt over his head allowing him to handle the jeans. I let him get himself into a pair of jogging pants and a tee shirt. It pained me to see Sam struggle with such a simple act, but I figured I owned him some dignity. While Sam did that, I plumped up two mounds of hay and draped the blankets over top to make a sort of bed for us.

"Well, there you have it."

"Not too bad." Sam crawled onto his bed and I covered him with one of our own blankets.

"Not too bad? Bro, it's awesome."

Sam shifted sluggishly to get comfortable.

I glanced over at the small group of dwarf …whatever's…they were all curled up side by side and sleeping.

Outside, the rain poured down, but inside, sweat poured down my brother's face.

"Sammy." I crawled over my hay mound bed to sit beside him, and placed a hand to his forehead. "You're warm." I scowled, pulling a handkerchief from my pocket, and dampening it with a bottle of water I'd retrieved from our duffels.

Sam winced, his normally bright hazel eyes dark and fussy, searching mine.

"You hurt?"

"Little."

"Finally an admission."

I leaned over and dragged the duffle bag into my lap turned to the duffle bag and started digging around inside.

"Dean, no drugs, I mean it, man. Not tonight."

I whipped out a deck of cards. "Let's play," I removed the cards and arched them into a bridge letting them fall sifting together. "Name your poison, Sammy."

"Gin Rummy."

"Gin it is."

We sipped our soup and played a few hands, until Sam's fingers started to twitch slightly and he yawned, desperately reorganizing his card and fighting to keep his eyes.

I smiled fondly when he discarded the Ace of clubs, just as he gave into sleep and tilted sideways. I quickly dropped my cards and caught him, slipping a hand behind his head to cradle it in my palm as I lowered him down into the hay. "There you go, buddy." I laid the back of my hand against his cheek checking his fever. He was still slightly warm.

Sam drew in a breath and forced his eyelids upward, capturing my gaze.

"Go back to sleep, Sammy."

"Dean," Sam sluggishly called my name, shoulders sagging as he curled toward me.

I settled closer to him and he sighed, seeming happy for the warmth.

The rest of the night went pretty much like that. With me waking every few hours to roll over and check Sam for fever. Sam briefly waking long enough to slur a disgruntled word or two then drifting back off.

Luckily his fever never got too high, and by early morning I let myself drift off soundly.

I woke to one of the Dwarfs – I think it was Sloppy- as he was licking my face.

"Son of a bitch." I bolted upright "Nasty." I shoved the goat away wiping my face on my sleeve. I looked over to see if my rude awakening had wakened Sam, but Sam was gone.

"Shit!" I leapt into action, fumbling to unwrap myself from the blanket. He was nowhere inside the shed, so I bolted out the sliding door into the sunshine.

"Sammy!" I called out loudly.

"Be right there. Just wait." Came the quick reply from behind the shed.

I splashed around the side of the building, rounding the corner just in time to see Sam zipping up his fly. "Dean," he scolded. "I said –"He slipped in the mud. One foot yanked out from under him with enough force to fling him flat to his back.

I rushed to his side and caught him by the front of his shirt yanking him upward and into hug before that could happen. "Mother of crap." I held Sam to me. "What the hell, Sammy?"

"I had to pee." Sam wiggled out of my hold, and retreated backward obviously disgusted.

"You mean piss...men say piss, Sam."

"You say piss...I say shut up, Dean."

I rolled my eyes. "You should have woke me."

Sam huffed in obvious aggravation hardening his stare. "Dean, I'm not going to wake you every time I need to preform a bodily function."

"Yes, you will." I stepped into his personal space and pressed a hand to the side of his neck then to his cheek then to his forehead.

"Back off, Dude." Sam took a step back and inhaled.

"Not until your incision is dressed, and you are fed, pilled, and watered. Come on. "I grabbed him by the arm and towed him back into the shed.

As dictated, by me, the big brother, Sam was fed a small continental breakfast I snagged from the Inn, watered and pilled.

"You ready to leave yet?" I waited impatiently in the doorway, while Sam pet each goat goodbye.

Sam stared at me mutley a second then went back to petting the goats.

"You pissed?" I asked.

Sam glanced over his shoulder. "What do you think?"

"That you're enjoying petting those dwarfs too much."

Sam exhaled a long breath and stormed past me to the car.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We'd been on the road again for half the day when my phone rang and I answered. "Hey, Bobby. We'll be there soon...how's Sam?" I glanced over at my grumpy brother. "I'll let you ask him. Here." I handed the phone over. "Booby wants to talk to you," I laughed.

"Shut up." Sam scowled, snagging the phone. "Hi Bobby," He over pronounced the name, eyeing me the whole time. "How do I feel?" Sam cocked his head in thought. "Henpecked," he said, scowl deepening. "No. You're right. I'm trying to understand it from his perspective, Bobby, and I get it I do…but there's no pleasing him. I need some space. Sam, rest…Sam, drink water…Sam, keep warm…Sam, eat your food…Sam, don't walk so far away from me…Sam, time for you to take your damn pills. Sam, tie your shoes."

"Tattletale," I snipped, rolling my eyes.

"I don't know, Bobby. Hold on I'll ask him." Sam turned my way and groaned pressing his elbow against his side to hold his ribs. "Bobby wants to know who gave you permission to be boss of me?"

I almost said dad but thought better of it. "Driver picks the music, driver picks the food, driver picks when, where, and why, driver gets to henpeck stubborn baby brother, driver…"

"…is a jerk," Sam slunk down in the seat and moaned

"And the passenger has a smartass cakehole." I snatched the phone away from Sam. "Bobby, you still there? Yes, sir. Yes I'm listening." I licked my lips nervously. "Yeah. Okay. I hear you. See you in a couple of hours." I hung up and stared out the windshield quietly berated.

Sam shifted in his seat and moaned again.

"You're hurting." I shot him a worried look.

"Just stiff. What'd Bobby say?"

"Said a man ain't bossed by nobody 'cept his wife…and I'm not your wife."

Sam laughed, "Could have fooled me."

"Shut up, Sam, and –"

"And go to sleep," Sam yawned. "Good idea." He slipped further down into the seat and inched closer to the passenger door laying his head against the window.

"Good boy." I grabbed the blanket that was tossed between us and gently laid it over Sam, then tuned the radio to a soft rock station.

TBC…


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I walked into the kitchen and went straight to the fridge, stiffly bending to peer inside.

Bobby - who'd been whistling a happy tune I didn't recognize while washing dishes behind me - asked, "How's he doing?"

He's still out." I shoved bottles and bowls around –ketchup, mustard, chowder, apple juice, Jell-O cubes, and a jar full of toad's eyes. "Had a rough night last night," I whispered sharply, finally wrapping my hand around a PBR. Shutting the refrigerator door, I walked over to stand in the doorframe separating the kitchen from the living room, and stared at the completely blanket-covered lump on the couch.

"How rough is rough?" Bobby asked cautiously.

I flicked a glance over at Bobby, and drew back just noticing the frilly brown apron he was wearing, the word **STUD** stitched in black across it and underneath that was a picture of a muffin.

"Nice man-bib, Stud Muffin," I chuckled.

"Don't!" Bobby pointed a potato masher at me. "Now back to, Sam."

I sighed and passed a hand down over my face. "Had some sort of sleep apnea episode. Tossed and turned all friggin' ass night." I shook my head. "Idiot kept rolling over onto his busted up ribs, then whacked himself in the face with his cast. Got one hell of a shiner."

"Ohhhhhh! That had to hurt." Bobby flinched, turning back to the stove.

"What am I going to do with you, bro?" I stared back across the room to the couch.

Under the bundle of blankets, Sam shifted slightly and mumbled, but didn't wake up. We'd been here four days and he was still hurting pretty badly.

As if Sam had read my mind and wanting to prove me right, a twitching hand poked out and gripped the edge of the blanket. He tugged, and the soft red-plaid fabric slipped off his head so I could see his pale face.

His lower lip was protruding and he winced in his sleep.

Little brother thought he was outsmarting me, but I knew he was tucking those pain pills under his tongue to later flush them away when I wasn't looking. Just like he did to Nurse Queeny in the hospital. Only I wasn't going to go in search of backdoors to get the pills into him. I grimaced at the thought.

I allowed him to think he fooled me the last two times, feigning stupid. Knowing how Sam felt about medication and how he hated that groggy, screwed up feeling, but enough was enough. Pain was pain. And I couldn't stand to see him suffer another min –

"Dinners pretty much done," Bobby piped in cutting off my thoughts. "Want to wake Sam?"

"Give him a few more minutes."

I took a sip of beer and strolled over to Bobby, peering over his shoulder as he finished pulverizing the mashed potatoes.

"For desert there's red Jell-O cubes with whip cream," he said happily. "That'll make Sam feel better."

I shook my head. Bobby was one wicked cook.

"I have a better idea on how to make Sam feel better." I nabbed the pill container sitting on the counter next to the coffee pot. "After desert you can pin Sam down while I pry open his mouth with a pair of pliers and stuff some pain pills down his throat," I growled, shaking out two white tablets.

Bobby stopped mashing and looked up at me. "Your big brother skills are slipping, Dean. Sam's inner child rebelling again?"

"I'll give his inner child a spanking," I cracked gruffly.

"He's not four anymore, Dean."

"Bobby…I've been trying to give him some space. Let him be master of his own body…but the master isn't very masterful. Tell me I'm wrong."

"He's a seasoned fighter, Dean. Thank your daddy for that." Bobby kept mashing. "You can't rob Sam of his dignity, son, by hovering about like a nagging old hen," he said, tossing in a few large pats of butter into the potatoes and stirring them around with a big wooden spoon.

"For the love, Bobby! He gave himself a black eye," I screeched. "When I know he's in pain and he won't do crap about it, that's when I slip on the fighting gloves," I stated firmly, taking out a small china-blue saucer from the cabinet and laying the two pills on it as if they were some sort of treat. "Don't you agree? You see him. He's barely scrapping by." I set the dish next to Sam's place setting.

"I won't give you my advice," Bobby grumbled, placing the bowl of buttery potatoes on the table next to the fried chicken and string beans. "Know why?" He turned to get the basket of cornbread.

"Why?"

"Because, boy." Bobby shoved the cornbread basket into my chest like a punch. "You don't use it anyway," he barked. "Put that on the table.

I set the basket on the table, my PBR by my plate. "Bobby, you don't understand, Sam, he's just a –"

"Sam's just a what?"

I glanced up.

Sam stepped foot into the kitchen, staggering and still looking half asleep. His face was china-white and his hair stood on end, blinking excessively to obviously clear the sleep from his head.

"A bitch," I sighed deeply, resting my hands on the back of my chair, and trying not to flinch at the sight of his puffed up black eye.

Sam sighed deeply in return and shuffled up to his place at the table, gripping the back of his chair his gaze flicked to the pills resting on the dish.

Sam shot me an explosive look for someone so weak and hurting.

I narrowed my eyes, gripping the chair tighter, the silent boom of fireworks between us bursting in rapid succession.

"Sit,idgits," Bobby commanded.

We both pulled our chairs out at the same time and sat, scooting in close to the table.

"Sam? You want fruit punch or OJ?" Bobby asked poking his head in the refrigerator.

"The juice or the man," I snorted, taking a swig of beer.

"You're not a comedian, Dean," Bobby grunted.

"Orange, please, Bobby," Sam said rolling his eyes at me, picking up his napkin and laying it neatly in his lap.

"I think I'm a comedian," I mumbled under my breath, snatching my napkin and tucking it into my shirt. "Sounded like a comedian to me." I helped myself to a spoonful of mashed potatoes. "I'm absolutely positively hilarious, isn't' that right, Sammy?" I slapped the buttery mound onto my plate.

Sam flashed me his shut-up-bitchface- shakily reaching across the table to take two spoonful's of green beans, the extra stretch causing him to wince.

I picked up the large bowl of potatoes and held it, while Sam took one small spoonful, all the while casting sidelong glances at the two pills sitting pretty in the dish beside his plate.

"Here you go, fresh squeezed this morning." Bobby set a glass of juice in front of Sam.

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam's hand trembled as he picked up the glass and took a small sip.

"Anytime, kid." Bobby sat between us, picked up the basket and held it out. "My famous cornbread, anyone?"

I helped myself to one.

"Sam?" Bobby extended the basket to him.

"I'll take two," Sam said hungrily.

I raised a brow, but said nothing as Sam reached into the basket. I could see his body tighten as he pulled on those broken ribs and belly stitches. "These look great, Bobby," he tried to say in a relaxed tone as he set the two biscuits on his plate, wincing again.

Seeing Sam in pain crushed my chest like the universe sat upon it. I couldn't take it anymore, I opened my mouth to lay into him about the pills, but Bobby's toed boot kicking me in the shin – hard – made me clamp my mouth shut.

That's when it happened, the miracle to end all miracles. My little brother picked up the two pills off that plate, popped them right into his mouth, and took three small swallows of OJ – the juice, not the man. And I knew this time, he'd actually swallowed them.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he cast a quiet glance over at me. "'Just a little sore," he admitted with a shy smile.

_Huh? _Sam wasn't trying to make Sam feel better, Sam was trying to make me feel better.

Bobby gave my shin another kick, softer this time. _See there._

I felt a bit of weight lift from my chest as we all ate heartily in familiar silence. That was until Sam took one more bite of green beans - emptying his plate - and made a pitiful gurgling sound at the back of his throat.

"Sam, you okay, boy?" Bobby set his fork down.

Sam flicked his eyes up to me. The corners of his mouth curled and the lines between his brows deepened and his face flushed red.

"Oh, crap." I started to stand and head over to help him, but Sam frantically beat me to the punch, pushing up out of his chair and stumbling toward the sink.

"Whoa, buddy, whoa!" I grabbed hold of his bicep as he brushed past, holding him up as his legs wobbled like a newborn giraffe.

"Oh, crap," Bobby came to stand beside us just as Sam puked into the basin full of unwashed dishes.

"Easy. Easy, damn it," I muttered cringing at how bowed Sam's back was and the sound of each harsh retch that ripped out of him. "Bro, you shouldn't have eaten two pieces of cornbread."

"Say what?" Bobby squeaked his resentment.

"Uhhh," Sam gurgled out pitifully keeping a two-handed-death grip on the edge of the counter, his legs still threatening to crumble. He came up for a breath like a drowning man. "Pills," he barely got the word out before he bent further into the sink and retched again.

"Son of a bitch," I swore. "I'm so sorry, Sam." I cringed knowing the only reason he took the damn pills was for my benefit.

"Sure the hell wasn't my cooking," Bobby protested, grabbing a kitchen towel and handing it to me.

Sam kept retching, sounding like a drowning sea lion.

"Breathe easy, Sammy, ride it out."

Sam finally stopped puking, barely lifting his head and making direct eye contact with me. "D'n," he called weakly.

"You done?"

Sam jostled his head yes, but then immediately bent back over the sink dry heaving.

"Guess he's not done," I looked over at Bobby for some sort of reassurance, while continuously rubbing Sam's curved back.

"Hang on." Bobby ducked out of the kitchen.

"Dee…don't like this," Sam heaved.

"I know that, Sammy," I mumbled softly, squeezing my eyes shut. "I know."

Sam's whole body trembled as he heaved three more times before he was finally finished. "Made a mess," he barely whispered, both of us avoiding looking at the chunks splattered all over the dishes in the sink.

"Don't you worry about that, son." Bobby came up from behind, draping a fuzzy blanket around Sam's shoulders. "This is fresh out of the dryer…nice and warm." He handed over a bucket to me. "What do you say we get Sam laying back down where he feels most comfortable, Dean?"

I nodded knowing what Bobby meant, offering Sam his choice. "Bed or couch, Sammy?"

Sam was beyond talking now raising a hand to point at the couch.

"You heard the young prince," Bobby smiled at me. "Back to the couch."

We helped Sam over to the couch. I eased his head down into pillows, while Bobby raised Sam's feet up.

There was also a bowl of cool ice water and a washcloth that magically had been set on the nearby end table.

Sam scooted toward the back of the couch making room as I sat next to him and took up the cloth.

"Here we go, dude." I dipped the cloth in the water and squeezed the excess. "Let's get rid of that sticky feeling."

"Sounds nice," Sam muttered his eyes dipping shut.

"Sounds kinky to me," I chuckled.

Sam didn't laugh, just blinked at me with heavy eyelids.

"Dude." I wiped along his lips and cheeks and neck.

"Be okay, Dean. Just no more."

I bit into my lip. No more pills equaled pain, but taking the friggin' things equaled pain to. Sam was trapped...yet again...and that both killed me, and scared me. "Yeah, pal, no more," I agreed, having no choice.

"Can I get you something to drink, kid?" Bobby asked.

"More OJ, Bobby," Sam said, keeping his eyes closed.

I gave a big grin and opened my mouth…

"The juice… not the man," Sam snorted softly.

"Glad you share in my sense of humor, Sammy, but let's not forget…I am funnier than you."

"Agreed," Sam deadpanned.

"You do?" I asked in surprise.

""Course, if not for your sense of humor, Dean, you'd have no sense at all." Sam blinked up at me with a wide grin on his face.

"Okay, enough, designer bags for eyes." I brushed a wayward curl off his forehead only to have the crimp of hair stubbornly drop right back. "You need to get some sleep."

Sam let out a ragged breath, blinked at me twice, and then simply melted off to sleep.

"Got your OJ right here, Sam," Bobby barged in.

"Shhh," I chided.

"Aw, he's adorable. Makes you feel sleepy too…don't it?" Bobby laid a hand on my shoulder. "Go get some rest, Dean, I'll watch over the boy."

"No," I said taking the OJ. "You go ahead, Bobby. I want to stay here."

Bobby didn't argue, just did an about face and slipped out of the room.

I traced small circles on Sam's chest watching him breathe, stopping only once when Sam's eyes fluttered open.

He stared at me for a split second, a small smile pulling on his lips, and then rolled his head toward me drifting back off the way he used to do when he was a baby.

I nodded to myself, swiping a tear from the corner of one eye. "Thank you," I whispered to anyone who might be listening, moving to a nearby chair and not taking my eyes off of Sam.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The distant sound of dishes rattling woke me. I blinked my eyes open. The shimmer of light peeking in-between the lacy white bedroom curtain's told me it was late afternoon. We'd been here at Bobby's about two weeks and I'd traded the couch for a bed.

The small upstairs room was cozy. Painted yellow with swirling green leaves and vines bordering along the ceiling. Hanging on the wall nearest the door was a large patchwork quilt with the date November 24, 1972 stitched on it. I always wanted to ask Bobby about that date, but for some reason I thought better of it. In one corner was a sewing machine. In another a tall dresser on which sat a crystal vase with a bunch of dead red roses still in it, and a few stacked storybooks. Romance novels to be exact. It just didn't seem like Bobby's style at all. But for some reason I always liked the room, even as a kid, especially whenever I didn't feel good.

I went to get up, realizing I was surrounded with pillows, one tucked along either side of my rib cage and another lay under my casted arm. I sighed. Dean had been in here again while I was sleeping.

"What the hell, Dean?" I clamped a hand around the pillow that lay across my stomach, instantly regretting it when I angrily winged it across the room and it knocked one of the thicker novels to the floor. "Crap." I flopped back, squeezing my eyes shut and waiting for Dean – my white knight- to come charging in and save the day.

Seconds ticked by…then another and another. Huh? He usually was nearby. Staking me out like I was some sort of criminal. I opened my eyes, and looked around. No Dean. Good.

I sat up in the rumpled bedding, gently tossing the other two pillows aside and clambering off the bed. Naps were for babies, but I had to admit the extra late afternoon siestas Dean traded off the pills for did make a difference.

We'd been here at Bobby's about two weeks and I was feeling agitated and caged. Needing to get back out on the road, but I'd kept my promise to Dean and didn't mention dad again. I figured I'd give it until the stitches were out; which Dean said would be in the next couple of days.

Dean, Dean, Dean. He meant well, but I couldn't even put on a pair of pants without him being there instructing me. I picked up the book and placed it back on the stack, grabbed my jacket and put it on wondering how a guy who took two naps a day could still be sleepy. I had to start getting back into shape.

I strolled downstairs to the kitchen.

Bobby was at the sink rolling out dough with a pin.

I had to smile. For such a tough guy, he did a lot of girly things.

"Hey, Bobby," I greeted, going to the counter and pouring myself a cup of coffee.

"Whatcha' say, Rip Van?" Bobby gave a sideways grin.

"Not much." I took my coffee to the table and picked up the paper lying there.

Bobby turned to me, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead leaving behind a smudge of flour. "Boy, it's hot as the devils ass in here with the oven on…why are you wearing a jacket?"

I shrugged. "Cause Dean's cold."

"That about sums it up." Bobby poured himself a cup of coffee and came to sit at the table. "He still telling you how to put your pants on too?"

Skipping the good stuff, I flipped to the comic section. "Right leg, left leg, wiggle, wiggle, pull up. Guh," I grunted in frustration.

Bobby shook his head and took a sip of coffee.

"Where is he anyway?" I looked up.

Bobby tipped his chin out into the living room. "Fell asleep at the desk, studying some fancy ladies bu –"

"Say no more," I chuckled, holding up a hand.

Bobby turned back to the dough he'd been working on. "What you making?"

"Pie for your brother, kid needs something to help him mellow out some. I'm going to sprinkle in some of my own homegrown," Bobby cleared his throat, "Uh, Indiana ditchweed. Might not hurt for you to try some either, Sam, since those pain pills of yours don't agree with you."

I laughed. "I know what that is, Bobby."

"Figures," Bobby drawled. "Don't tell your brother."

"I won't tell if you don't tell Dean where I am for the next few hours."

"And where would that be?" Bobby looked over at me suspiciously.

"Out back, racking leaves."

Bobby frowned looking at my casted arm.

"One handed," I said. "I'll take it easy. Besides just need to be outside, clear my head, you know what I mean?"

Bobby's forehead creased. "Yeah, kid, I know."

For a second I thought he was going to cry. Then he smiled a little. "Go." He waved a hand toward the backdoor and turned back to his pie crust. "Get some fresh air. Do something besides lying in a bed, sitting in a chair, or wearing a jacket in the house."

"Bobby, you okay?"

He was silent a moment.

"You get out of here now, Sam, before Dean wakes up," he said in his no-nonsense dad-tone.

"Yes, sir," I moved quietly down the hallway and out the door.

TBC…


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Tag

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Rub-a-dub-dub time, Baby, you are so going to love this. I know it's not your usual day at the spa, Sweetheart." I ran a loving hand along her sleek, black hood seductively. "I know you're used to my hand washes, but this will have to do." I clicked my tongue. "You'd make one hot Asian chick, Baby, you know that?" I muttered, digging into my front jeans pocket for some change. When I looked back up, I was surprised to see an old man with a long beard and fuzzy eyebrows standing there glowering at me.

"I know you," I hissed. "Don't you dare start with that friggin' therapy crap again. If anyone needs therapy it'd be-"

The earth under my feet suddenly moved. I looked down at the ground expecting to see it crack open.

Nothing.

"You feel that?" I glanced back up, but the old man was gone. "What...what the?" A strange been-there-done-that sensation came over me. "No, no, no!" My stomach flipped and flopped. "Sammy?" I spun around toward the road. "Christ!"

Sam, stood on the double yellow line, smack in the middle, arms spread wide and eyes closed.

"Sam!" I yelled.

He didn't acknowledge me.

The rumble under my feet grew stronger and I watched in horror as a silver tanker truck appeared on the horizon blasting Sam's way.

"Not again! No! Not while I'm around." I took one step toward Sam when something cold and hard wrapped around my waist and pulled me up against the Impala.

Struggling to break free I twisted to see what was holding me back.

An arm of blackness - attached to Baby - oozed out of her like a puddle of water and reined me in closer.

"Baby?" I kicked and fought, but the black tendril only held tighter.

I knew Baby had a jealous streak anytime I'd eye up another cool classic. Like that '69 Chevy Camaro of Bobby's or the 64 Aston Martin Sam and I had to burn because it was haunted. Man, she'd get her pissed-off on if I even mentioned the word Mustang. Our bond was special, and she was well and truly mine, but she'd never had been jealous of Sammy before.

"Baby? Sweetheart? What are you doing? Sam…he needs me."

I looked back up at Sam. The tanker was bearing down on him, closer and closer. And Yet Sam didn't budge. He stood there. Straight and tall, chest puffed out, eyes closed – the sacrificial lamb.

"Baby! Please! We're going to lose him!"

Baby body-hugged me, twisting around my chest unnaturally and squeezing as if she were trying to juice me.

I opened my mouth to scream out another warning to Sam, but a second black tendril snaked around to cover my mouth cutting off my words.

I was helpless and could do nothing but watch in horror at the scene playing out before me.

The truck stopped only five feet from Sam, squaring off with my little brother. Engine rumbling, smoke stakes billowing. The silver grill opened to reveal shark-like triangular teeth snarling and spitting gasoline.

Sam never flinched, never opened his eyes. If anything his resolve to sacrifice himself to this beast only grew. His will strong. _Who the hell lets a truck run them over on purpose?_

Sam. That's who.

To save whoever or whatever… that kid would go to the ends of the earth.

The truck flashed its headlights and then poured on the steam.

In slow motion I watched as the tanker ran Sam over, then backed up and ran him over again…and again…and again.

Each time I jerked in Baby's hold, my muffled shouting and kicking only served to exhaust me.

The more the truck ran Sam over, the deader and flatter and bloodier Sam got.

I closed my eyes trying to block out the reality.

Baby suddenly let go of me and I fell to my knees shaking.

Realizing I was free, I snapped my eyes open and got up. I rushed over to Sam as fast as I could and dropped down beside him.

The sight was beyond horrifying. Sam's face was white, blood trailing out his mouth, his entire body head-to-toe pressed into the ground.

"No, no, no. Sammy!" I reached out to touch him. His skin was cold. My mind was screaming. _This isn't real. This wasn't happening. _But here I was.

Sam was feather light as I peeled him off the pavement and held him in my arms, all floppy and paper-thin. What was I supposed to do now? Burn him? Use him as a beach towel. Roll him up and try to reinflate him later?

I looked over at Baby who sat quiet and innocent in the wash bay.

Eyes bright and tear stung, I lowered Sam to the ground and stalked over to her. With trembling hands I opened the trunk and brought out a crowbar.

"You bitch! " I let out a scream of pain and started taking her apart, piece-by-piece.

**Bang! Bang! Bang!**

My eyes suddenly snapped open and my breath was sucked away as I thudded to the floor. I stared wide-eyed around the room. I'd fallen asleep in Bobby's study at the desk.

I shook my head to clear away the nightmare. "Dreaming, Dean, you were only dreaming," I whispered out trembling lips, remembering Sam was alive and napping in that girly room of Bobbies upstairs.

I'd ordered him to take two naps per day in exchange for not taking the pills, and so far he'd been really good about following my rules these past few days.

I stood up on my quaking legs, wiping the crusty sleep from my eyes and hurried upstairs to wake him. The dream shook me to the core. I had been so close to losing Sam. I knew I'd been riding him and fussing over him to the point of obsession, maybe I needed to loosen up a bit. I advanced down the long hallway to the end room. I knew my big brother skills were a bit off lately, but Sam had to admit he was no Man of Steel either. "Sammy," I called out loudly. "Rest period is over, dude." I stopped in the doorway, scrubbing the last of the nightmare from my eyes. "What do you say we pop in a Chuck Norris video? I'll even let you have a beer if you promise not to puke it up." I opened my eyes when I didn't get an answer or even hear the squeak of the bed springs.

The bed was empty; the pillows I'd piled all around him while he was snoring were tossed onto the floor, one thrown across the room. "You've got to be friggin' kidding me," I barked, heading back out into the hallway. "Sam, where are you?" I poked my head into my room.

No Sam.

"If you want that beer, bro, you'll answer me." I checked Bobby's room.

No Sam.

"Going once." I checked the bathroom.

No Sam.

"Going twice," I said heading for the stairs.

"What's wrong?" Bobby stood at the bottom of the steps, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand.

"Where the hell is he?" I screeched, my fingers clutching the banister.

"Dean, put some ice in your britches and calm down. Sam's fine. Give the kid some space," Bobby sighed, carefully taking a sip of coffee.

"Space, my ass," I yelled, largely ignoring the steps beneath my feet as I flew downstairs. "Sam!" I called, breezing past Bobby-the- trader. "Where the hell are you?" I frantically darted around the house starting with the kitchen.

"Dean what's this all about?" Bobby asked, trailing way too close behind me.

"I had a dream."

"Okay, Martin Luther. And pray tell…what was this dream all about? And what does it have to do with Sam?"

I bit into my lip, not wanting to relive it, but knowing Bobby wouldn't let it go.

"Judging by the look on your face, boy, you weren't lying nude on some beach-somewhere…Bo Derek smearing lotion all over your body."

I cringed, and whirled around.

Bobby had had a strange, dreamy far-off smile on his face as he took another sip of coffee.

I shivered in disgust. "Um…yeah. No." I shook my head free of the brain-searing image of Bo and Bobby and a bottle of lotion.

"Then what was your dream about?" Bobby asked again.

Realizing Bobby was purposely trying to distract me, I spun back around, heading down the back hallway. "I had a dream Sam took a job as a speed bump," I growled.

"What'd you mean?" Bobby bumped into me when I paused to check out the far backroom that served as an extra library for all Bobby's books. "Damn it, boy." Bobby swiped at the coffee that spilled onto his flannel hunter's jacket.

No Sam. _Crap!_

I huffed in exasperation, and continued on.

"Come on, Dean. You can tell your Uncle Bobby what you dreamt."

I rolled my eyes. We hadn't called Bobby 'uncle' since Sam and I were kids.

"Sam. I dreamt Sam was squashed on the road by that fucking truck, Uncle Bobby," I muttered dryly. "Flat as a cat, steam rolled…and I couldn't….he wouldn't….and…and…" I stopped to catch my breath. "And I couldn't peel him off or roll him up or breathe any air into him okay? Thanks for making me relive that, happy now?" I snipped.

Bobby growled a warning.

I deflated. "Sorry. Sorry, Bobby," I said running a hand through my hair. "It's just."

Bobby gentled a hand to my shoulder and gave a warm squeeze. "It's okay, Dean. It's normal to be freaked out about the accident."

"I'm not freaked out," I croaked.

"The wear pattern on your shoes says otherwise," Bobby gripped my shoulder tighter and marched me toward the back of the house.

"Where we going?"

"Sam's only been out of the hospital a few weeks, Dean. Being trapped in this musty old house with the likes of us…sure has not done much for his morale."

"You didn't answer my question, Bobby."

"Shut up, yeah idgit, and come with me." Bobby sighed, heading out the torn screen door to the backyard. We walked a few hundred feet to the left and rounded a stack of hauled cars. "There's idgit number two," Bobby chuckled lightly.

I startled in disbelief. There, in a white tee shirt, blue PJ bottoms, and of all things a nerdy-plaid, wool scarf snuggled around his neck – as if that would keep him warm- was my not-so-little-brother.

He was standing under a canopy of a large, shedding Maple tree knee deep in crimson and gold.

"Racking leaves? He's racking leaves," I barked in frustration, waving a hand in the air.

"Kid's only using one hand," Bobby defended.

"Yeah," My eyes shot wide, "Because the other arm is broken. Son of a bitch," I squawked waggling a furious finger at Sam, completely appalled at how badly he was sweating, his shirt soaked through. "You let him do this? Look at him."

"I am looking." Bobby smiled. "And it looks to me as if the boy's getting back to nature and having a little bit of fun, Dean."

Even though the sun was shining, the wind blew cold, sending more crimson and gold leaves raining from the tree to clutch in my brother's bedraggled hair. I had to briefly admit. He did look relaxed, like he was having fun. Sammy always did like a good, sweaty workout.

I frowned scolding myself. "And won't it be a toilet bowl full of fun when Sam comes down with the flu or worse pneumonia and ends up back in the hospital?" I took a step forward, opening my mouth to ream my stupid-pain-in-the-ass-little brother.

Bobby's hand slapping hard over my mouth stopped me.

"Ewww!" Bobby shrieked, swiftly removing his hand from my mouth, eyes big and round as he stared in disbelief at me. "Palm licking, Dean?"

"Sorry, Bobby." I shrugged. A big brother's got to do, what a big brother's got to do," I said. "Sammy!" I stomped across the yard, coming to stand at the edge of the friggin' Mount Rushmore mound of leaves he'd racked.

"Hey, Dean." Sam smiled up at me, puppy-dog eyes blasting full on.

"Sam," I softened, struggling to keep calm, "What on earth are you doing out here?"

Sam cocked his head off to one side, looking a bit confused. "Uh…racking leaves," he said, holding up the rack for me to see.

"I'm not blind, dude! I can see that," I lost a bit of my calm.

"Then why are you asking stupid questions, Dean?" Sam scowled putting the metal tins to the cold, hard ground and going back to work.

I turned to look over my shoulder at Bobby for help. He was leaning quietly against a rusted blue '69 two-door Skylark 400 V8 sipping at his coffee and I knew I wouldn't get any help from him. "Thanks for the backup, old man," I whispered, turning back to Sam I tried for a more subtle approach. "Buddy, you don't look so good."

"I'm fine, Dean." Sam kept up his one-handed racking - awkwardly at best.

"How long have you been out here?" I glared at the growing mound of leaves.

"Not long."

"Uh-huh.

"It's a beautiful day, Dean," Sam justified.

"You have goose bumps on your arms," I retorted.

"So."

"So…get back in the house," I lowered my voice to a growl.

"I'm not done yet." Sam growled back, and then shivered when the wind blew again; sending a handful of leaves lazily floating down to the ground.

"When do you think you'll be done?" I asked quietly, glancing up through the skeletal branches of the tree. Higher up there were still quite a few leaves left to fall.

"Don't know."

"You stay out here until every last leaf is racked, and you'll be buried under an Empire State Building-sized mound," I spat.

"Can't pickle the kid in a jar, Dean," Bobby called out. "Compared to what he could be doing…I'd say racking leaves is harmless enough. Let him go."

Letting go of Sam was always my downfall. As far back as I could remember. His first day of kindergarten was a doozy. He'd stared up at me with a huge smile on his face, wide-eyed and ready. I'd kept his hand clasped in mine so tight, Sam had to pull away. I almost chased after him, but dad's hand on my shoulder stopped me. The scrappy kid practically dwarfed by his jostling backpack marched stubbornly across the grass and into the school building, pausing ever so briefly to call over his shoulder –

"I'll be okay, Dean. "

My little brother's adult voice brought me back to present-day-stubborn-ass Sam. "A Little good old-fashion work never hurt anyone," Sam said, tugging the rack across the ground.

He tried to hide it, but I caught the wince of pain that flashed across his face.

"Dude!" I lost it. "I'm not even joking." I trudged straight through the pile, kicking leaves into the air. "Get your ass back in that house."

"I will when I'm ready to." Sam defied me, standing straighter.

I shot a hand out, grabbing hold of the rack handle. "Let go of the stick, Sam."

Sam glared at me. "It's my stick, Dean," he said coolly. "I can do with it what I want."

We both frowned. Squirming uncomfortably, we simultaneously let go of the stick – 'eh rack – staring at each other from across the pile– a brother's stand-off.

Sam made the first move, kicking a batch of leaves at me.

I sighed, and kicked a few back, mine going higher.

Sam angrily, tugging a few out of his hair.

"You done now?" I said dully.

Sam cocked his head and thought about that for half-a- second, then bent down, grabbed some leaves, took one step into the pile and tossed them into my face.

I spit bits of dirt from my mouth. "Really, Sammy?"

"Yeah," Sam's eyes lit up. "Really, Dean."

Sam bent in toward me.

I bent in toward him.

We looked like a couple of football players about to crack helmets.

"Leaf fight," we both yelled together, scooping up armfuls of leaves and heaving them at each other.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Well, tickle me Elmo," I muttered, sipping at the last of my coffee, watching my boys run ramped through the leaves. "Bought time they loosened up."

I chuckled watching the two go at it with gusto, nailing each other with handful after handful of leaves, laughing and yelling and screaming and giggling like the idgits they were. Like the brother's they were. Plain warmed the hackles of this old-man's heart. Brother therapy.

"I think you're losing, Dean," Sam heckled, stuffing a handful of leaves at Dean's mouth.

"That all you got, Grandma," Dean spat. "Kowabunga, dude," he yelled shoving leaves down the front of Sam's PJ bottoms.

"Bonzi," Sam shouted, dropping gingerly down into the pile he must have spent half the morning racking, and disappearing underneath.

I had to say the boy was getting the better of Dean even though he only had the use of one hand, but I suspected it was because Dean was taking it easy on the kid.

"That's my boys." I turned to head into the house, but the crackling and crunching of a pair of heavy feet heading my way stopped me cold. "Don't you boys dare…?"

They launched their attack. Sam dumping leaves over my head, while Dean shoved a handful down the back of my shirt.

"Idgits!" I roared. "This means war." I turned and stomped off toward the house.

"Hey, Bobby, come back. We're sorry," Sam called after me.

"Come on, old man. We were just goofing off," Dean countered.

"Only one who calls me old man is this old man," I grumbled, tossing my empty mug to the ground.

"Bobby, where you going?" Sam and Dean both called after me.

"Going to get the leaf blower," I hollered out a warning.

"Oh, crap," they squealed and I heard them crunch off jabbering to one another as they planned their strategy.

"Pay back is sweet," I muttered with a smile.

Happily ever laugher…for the moment.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

HOTSHOT'S ORIGINAL STORY PROMPT:

Sam has an accident that has nothing to do with the supernatural. Sam was in a restaurant waiting for Dean (where was Dean?). While Sam was waiting for Dean, he was looking at a newspaper because there was an article that caught his attention. While Sam was reading the newspaper article, a truck was driving down the road not far from Sam in the restaurant. The driver passed out (why - maybe he had a heart attack and died?) while driving and the truck was now driverless. The truck drove into the restaurant and right into Sam (Sam was sitting near a large window in the restaurant). Sam was so involved with reading the newspaper that he didn't hear anything until it was too late. The truck ends up on top of Sam, knocking Sam out. Sam is badly hurt. Dean gets near the restaurant and sees that there is a truck half in and half out of the restaurant and that there is glass, chairs etc., all over the place Dean starts to run to the place, because he has a bad feeling. He sees that someone is under the truck and realizes that it is Sam. Dean is talking to Sam to keep him awake while the firemen etc., are trying to get him free. It takes the firemen a long time to free Sam , because they have to be careful so that Sam doesn't get hurt anymore than he already is. After they get him free, the paramedics are there to rush him to the hospital etc. Of course everything ends well - the firemen/paramedics get Sam to the hospital in time; Sam has surgery and after a stay (how long?) in the hospital (where of course Sam doesn't want to be, but Dean is making him stay) Sam is eventually released. I would love to have some of the story at the end be with Sam recovering at Bobby's place

**A prompt for the prompt: **

**Sam still has some healing to do. Anyone want to continue this story? **

**A flock of Gargoyles has followed Bobby's scent and shown up at the Salvage Yard. Bobby and Rufus obviously didn't kill the entire nest. They're big and bad and pissed. Out for revenge. Sam is still on the mend….when they attack. He has to help ward them off and gets reinjured in the process….or maybe they are even trapped in the house…unable to escape…surrounded by more gargoyles that have shown for backup. Bobby has to put out a call for more hunters to come help them…mean time….Bobby, Sam, and Dean are stuck in the house….….with an injured Sam…fending off the periodic attacks (Gargoyles like to take things slow) as they wait for help to arrive. From Rufus? Or maybe even John shows up. Lots of action and brave, but limp Sam.**

**Would love someone to do this. Or any version of this. Does not have to be bounced off this story. Any takers? Double-dog-dare!**


End file.
